


Reclamation

by dragongirlG, soup_illustrations (potofsoup)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Angst, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019, Cryofreeze (Marvel), Embedded Images, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Libraries, M/M, Memory Issues, Minor Original Character(s), Nerdiness, Past Violence, Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Research, Science Fiction, Self-Discovery, Stucky Bingo 2019, construction sites, self-care, winter soldier mask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-04-24 12:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 31,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19173652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/pseuds/dragongirlG, https://archiveofourown.org/users/potofsoup/pseuds/soup_illustrations
Summary: The Winter Soldier’s mask never falls off when he fights Captain America on the overpass and the helicarrier. That doesn’t stop the Soldier from recognizing Captain America and wondering why the man’s face is haunting his scattered memories.After HYDRA falls, the Soldier appoints himself three missions: figure out his connection to Captain America, develop an optimal self-care routine, and re-establish his own identity in a world where he isn’t at HYDRA’s beck and call. When he unexpectedly encounters Captain America and his team of Avengers, he must figure out how to honor the man he used to be without sacrificing the man he’s become, all while hiding the face he shares with James Buchanan Barnes.Written for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019. Cross-fill for Stucky Bingo 2019, square: “identity porn.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my CapRBB fic, whose working title was: "identity porn with a heavy dose of self-care". This also fulfills the "identity porn" square on my Stucky Bingo card. 
> 
> Firstly, I'd like to give a huge thank you to my artist [potofsoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potofsoup/works) for the inspiring art pieces featured in the banner and throughout the fic; I had so much fun writing this story and the art was absolutely lovely. A second huge thank you goes to my wonderful beta W and the members of the RBB Discord, who provided constant validation and encouragement. Finally, a massive thank you goes to the moderators of the RBB for organizing this event and giving me the opportunity to challenge myself.
> 
> Note: there is one very vague reference to past sexual assault and one vague reference to past humiliation and sexual harassment. I will warn for them in the beginning chapter notes.

The Soldier stands in the Smithsonian, breathing harshly behind his mask, and stares at the face on the wall. It looks similar to his, but it can’t be—

The Soldier jerks his head away, coming face to face with a portrait of Captain America.

_“I know him.”_

The words shape themselves like ghosts in his mouth. But no, he can’t possibly—

The Soldier shakes his head violently, making himself dizzy. He sits down hard on a bench and tries to think.

Here are the facts:

The Soldier has failed his mission.

HYDRA has been decimated.

The Secretary is dead.

Captain America is alive, and his face is haunting the Soldier’s thoughts.

The arm is hot—too hot. The Soldier wraps his flesh hand tightly around his wrist, then hisses and draws back, staring at the fading burn marks on his palm. He exhales sharply and shoves his hands into the pockets of his stolen jacket, then glides along the walls and slips out the side doors.

The Soldier needs to return to the base. He does not know if any of the techs are still alive to help him, but the base should still be standing. At the very least, he can gather resources and intel to help make a plan.

Images flash by as he cuts through a sea of passersby, phone screens held up close to their faces. The man with the wings, flying around the Potomac. The Triskelion building and the helicarriers exploding in the air. S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA logos in high resolution, placed side-by-side. A warning from the Environment Protection Agency: “CODE RED AIR QUALITY ALERT: N95 MASKS RECOMMENDED.” A photo of the Secretary’s face captioned “ALEXANDER PIERCE: MISGUIDED PATRIOT OR TREASONOUS TRAITOR?”

The Soldier’s breath quickens behind his mask as he catches a glimpse of the last, and he clenches his metal fingers into a fist as scattered, fragmented memories of the Secretary threaten to barrage him.

“Hey, cool mask, bro! Where can I get one?”

The Soldier hunches his shoulders and ignores the eyes he feels on the back of his neck. The mask is HYDRA’s, custom-made to hide his identity and protect HYDRA’s most valuable Asset from hazardous particulates, just like the goggles that the Black Widow destroyed on the overpass—

When was he on an overpass? No. The fight was on the helicarrier, and the Black Widow was not present. (But he knows her too; there was a car and a cliff and a man who looked like Howa—)

“Bro! Bro! You okay?”

The Soldier grits his teeth and ducks into a crowd of disgruntled tourists who are receiving white respirator masks from their tour guide. The image bleeds and shifts, and suddenly they’re all techs, bending over an operating table and wielding a buzzsaw—and he’s struggling because he doesn’t want it, he’s being pushed back, no, _forward_ , in a mass of prisoners and they’re in a cage—

The night washes away into a dim grey daylight. He’s standing in front of a train—no. He’s on a train, and the wind is whipping cold and harsh against his face. There’s the shriek of metal scraping against metal. He’s gripping an iron rail with his left arm—and it’s a _flesh_ arm, but _how?_ —and Captain America is screaming, _“Bucky!”_

The tracks rattle as the subway car comes to a screeching halt. The Soldier stumbles out onto the platform and runs.

* * *

The base is empty and silent, a graveyard with the ghosts of human activity around every corner. The Soldier strides past the iron gates into the vault, muscle memory taking him all the way to the center—and then he halts.

Someone has attempted to destroy the Chair.

There are bullet holes in the leather padding and shell casings scattered around the base. The halos are a scorched and melted mess, hanging precariously at an angle, loose wires still sparking and smoking from fried circuit boards. The control panel is nothing but pieces of cracked plastic.

That’s not all. The monitors that used to show his vital signs are toppled onto the ground, screens smashed into innumerable glass shards. The bank boxes—previously just a hazy background image to the pain of the Chair—have all been pulled out and thrown to the floor. And the squat, locked filing cabinet containing the only copy of the Soldier’s maintenance manual is wide open and warped, like someone attempted to take a hammer to it but ran out of time. The Soldier looks inside cautiously, wary of a trap; he has never been permitted to view the file on his own. The paper stored within is nothing but a pile of ashes.  

The Soldier blows out a frustrated breath. His arm is starting to burn where it joins his flesh, and he needs a way to fix it. He resists the urge to tear it off. That never worked in the past, and even if he can’t remember it, the scars along his chest tell an obvious story. The Soldier quietly goes through the side door, scanning for any movement, and then lets out a silent sigh of relief.

The cryostasis tube is intact, and so is the computer that controls its activation process.

This, at least, is something he can use. The cryostasis tube will not erase his memories, but it will allow him to sleep. The Secretary had ensured that the Soldier knew how to operate the tube, to the surprise of both the Soldier and the techs.

“An Asset that maintains its own mind and body is more efficient than one that is completely dependent on a team of handlers,” the Secretary explained, as an extremely nervous demonstrated how to perform field medicine on Soldier’s bleeding flesh arm. “I believe the term now is ‘performing self-care.’ You must perform self-care when we are not available. That includes sleeping after a mission so that you may restore your mind, eating regularly to fulfill your caloric intake, and setting your own wounds so that your body may heal properly. Do you understand?”

The Soldier nodded. “I understand, sir.”

The Secretary laid a hand on the Soldier’s shoulder, squeezing tight. “Leave the arm and the Chair to us. Both of those involve complex procedures that would only confuse you and distract you from your mission.”

The Soldier looks at the tube, considering. He has the wild, impulsive thought that perhaps he can cool his arm by sticking it  directly inside. _“It’s just a giant freezer,”_ a nasally voice echoes in his mind; it probably belongs to some tech he can’t remember. But he does remember enough to know that simply sticking his arm or himself into the tube without preparation is dangerous and foolish. Besides, he needs to make a plan first.

The computer does not connect to the Internet—that would be far too much of a security risk—but it does have a text program. The Soldier pecks away at the keyboard impatiently as he tries to organize his thoughts. (Why did HYDRA never teach him how to type? This seems like a major oversight.) After several painful minutes, one of which involves accidentally breaking the shift key with his metal finger and another which involves breaking the other shift key by pressing too hard, he has the following list:

  1. _Cool arm. Insulated freezer pack and first aid kit_
  2. _Secure vault, temp base of ops, consider making permanent_
  3. _Clean self_
  4. _Sleep in tube, 5 hrs min, 12 hrs max, optimal 7 hrs_
  5. _collect civilian resources_
  6. _gather intel on cap america, why do i know him_
  7. _contact other hydra bases and see if active. ask for next mission objective._



After a second of consideration, the Soldier deletes the last item with a vicious, startling surge of satisfaction. He does not have to answer to anyone now. He does not have to belong to HYDRA, or the Secretary, or the techs, for they are all gone.  He can do as he wants. (And what a heady thought that is: when was the last time he was allowed to _want_?)

The thought is overwhelming. The Soldier does not remember a life without a mission. What use does he have other than being the Fist of HYDRA? But there is no one to wield him now, and besides, he is tired.

The Secretary told him that killing Captain America would be his last mission. He failed to complete it, and normally that would mean punishment, but there is no one here to carry that out besides himself. And why would he punish himself? That would be the opposite of self-care.

He does not let himself think about how he not only failed his mission, he sabotaged it. He pulled Captain America from the river and waited until Captain America breathed again. It felt urgent in a way he could not name.

The Soldier shakes his head sharply and focuses on the task at hand. He pulls out the first aid kit from the computer desk and hunts around for a cooling pack, a small sigh escaping him as he presses one against his shoulder. Captain America had dislocated the metal arm on the helicarrier, and although the Soldier had wrenched it back as soon as he left the riverbank, the muscles around it still throb with pain. And the arm itself has been overheating since he crawled out of the Potomac.

The Soldier slaps two more cooling packs onto the servos, vaguely wishing he had a fan. For now, the packs must suffice.

He waits until nothing but a dull ache remains in his shoulder before starting the next task on the list.

The vault is located in the third sub-basement of the abandoned bank. The Soldier clears and secures each level with painstaking diligence. He bends metal locks back into place and reattaches skewed keypads, then detaches the cameras hiding in the corners and crushes them under his muddy boots, his feet squelching unpleasantly due to his still-damp socks. The cameras all seem inactive and dusty, but he doesn’t want to run the risk of transmitting any surveillance to an unknown party by accident.

When the Soldier is finished, he plods down the stairs and enters the bathroom, pausing to grab a spare set of clothing from his locker in the corner: black briefs, black pants, a black T-shirt. HYDRA always maintained a week’s worth of under-layers and two spare uniforms should he incur any damage to his outfit during a mission.

The Soldier sheds the civilian clothes he’d stolen from a donation bin, removes his mask, steps into the single stall. Nothing but cold water runs through the pipes; an Asset has no need for comfort, after all, and no one else used the shower here except in case of emergencies. Even so, the Soldier still flinches as an icy jet of water hits his bare skin.

At least he doesn’t get hosed down anymore. The Secretary had put a stop to that when he took over, making the Soldier’s maintenance of his cleanliness part of his orders for self-care.

“Basic hygiene is a necessity,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the bloodstains on the Soldier’s face after a mission. “Go, wash now. I trust you know how to turn on the shower by yourself.”

One of the techs had laughed a little at that. The Secretary had shot him point blank, then made the other techs clean up the mess while the Soldier watched.

The Secretary had been—not kind, exactly, but, reasonable. Understanding. He was never unnecessarily cruel to the Soldier, and for that, the Soldier had been grateful.

The Soldier shivers under the spray as he rubs industrial soap over his skin and through his hair, washing off the stink of river water and grimy pollutants. The Secretary is dead, and HYDRA is gone, and the Soldier does not have to obey anyone anymore. He can fiddle with the arm if he wants—but he does not know how. He can destroy the Chair—though that has already been done for him. He can choose not to shower, not to dress his wounds, not to sleep; but if he chooses not to do those things, then he will not be able to function. And he wants to function correctly. If he cannot be a weapon, then he can at least learn how to be a person.

So, the Soldier thinks, he will follow the Secretary’s self-care instructions. Sleep in the tube; clean himself up after missions; maintain his body’s metabolism; and dress any wounds he receives. And he will modify the instructions as he sees fit, because the Soldier is his own commander now. He will set his own missions, one at a time until he figures out what he truly wants. And then?

Then, the Soldier thinks as he runs a rough towel through his hair, then he will truly be free.

The word makes him feel lightheaded, and he sits down hard on the shower bench, pulling on his pants as he rolls the word around on his tongue. Free? What does that mean? His gut clenches deep with longing, as if this is something he’s been waiting to hear for a long time.

The Soldier finishes dressing, and then walks back to the room with the cryostasis tube and the computer. He programs the tube for a cycle of seven hours and idly waits for his hair to dry completely. It takes an hour. Then he opens the door, sets an auto-close mechanism of three minutes, and climbs inside, shivering a little at the icy air. The light fades from the inside of his eyelids as the door closes over him with a _thunk_.


	2. Chapter 2

The Soldier wakes from cryo at the specified time. When the door opens, he is momentarily confused by the empty base, wondering if an attack has occurred while he has been asleep. Then he sees his list on the computer monitor, and he remembers. He commands himself now. 

The Soldier puts on his mask first. He is not stupid. If anyone looks closely at his face, it’ll take them less than ten seconds to notice that he strongly resembles James Buchanan Barnes, especially since there is a giant exhibit of the man in the Smithsonian nearby. Even if that were not the case, the mask prevents him from being identified with facial recognition technology. He vaguely wishes he had his goggles. It is easy to be a ghost when you do not have any identifying features.

He pulls on the clothes he stole the day before, stuffs his feet into his now-dry boots, and finishes off with leather gloves to hide his metal hand. Then he takes the stairs up to street level and steps out onto the street, blending into a crowd of passersby, who are all wearing particulate masks due to the smoke in the air from the helicarrier wreckage. 

The next item on his list is to gather civilian resources. It is a surprisingly easy task. Goodwill and several other thrift shops are allowing people to take up to three clothing items, two medium items, or one large item for free, with a sign encouraging voluntary donations at each cash register. 

The Soldier makes rounds at each shop in a fifteen mile radius, picking up jeans, underwear, shirts, socks, and sweaters, all of which he stuffs into a backpack he got at his first go-round. He also picks up a small dental hygiene kit, grimacing a little at the fuzzy taste in his mouth. The techs must have taken care of this somehow, because he can’t remember the last time he brushed his teeth. 

At the last shop, on impulse, he picks out a soft brown leather wallet, even though he has no money or identification of any sort. He also gets a water-stained black leather journal and a fountain pen with a bottle of ink, tucking them into his pocket with an odd sense of pride. 

He wonders if he is really James Buchanan Barnes. It could very well be true. He has been in and out of cryostasis for several years, and has never physically aged past age thirty or so. If he is Barnes, then that means he has been with HYDRA for approximately seventy years. It also means he was once Captain America’s right-hand man and Steve Rogers’ best friend.  _ From schoolyard to battlefield... _

The thought that makes his skin crawl. Had Barnes been a spy for HYDRA all along? Had he intended to betray Rogers, to become an assassin for the very people Rogers sacrificed his life to defeat? What motivation would he have to do that?

The Soldier gasps, surprised to find tears trickling down his face. He swipes at them quickly and quickly turns the corner, sitting down on a nearby hedge and dropping his head in his hands. The world is too bright around him despite the haze lingering in the air, and there are voices in his head, ringing in his head with increasing volume: 

_ “Ready to follow Captain America—" _

_ “Soldat—”  _

_ "—procedure has already—”  _

_ “—you will comply—”  _

_ “—nothing to hold out for, he crashed and killed himself—" _

_ “—had him on the ropes—” _

_ “—wipe him—" _

_ “—Coney Island?”  _

“Sir, are you all right?”

The Soldier blinks. There is a middle-aged woman standing in front of him, wearing a bright blue cardigan and a gray skirt. She has brown skin, curly black hair, and warm brown eyes magnified by round black frames. 

“Sir. Are you having trouble breathing?”

The Soldier clears his throat and shakes his head. The movement makes him flinch.

The woman’s eyes flicker to his backpack. “The library is opening now if you’d like to come inside. We have a water fountain, a vending machine, and an air filtering system that will allow you to breathe freely while you are inside.”

The Soldier wonders if this is a trap. Perhaps this woman is a rogue HYDRA agent. But there’s something about her concerned gaze that makes him want to trust her.

“My name’s Margie,” she says, sensing his hesitation, “I’m one of the librarians here. Come on in if you feel up to it.”

She turns and walks up the steps to a squat brick building with glass doors. It is indeed a library.

The Soldier takes a moment to rub his temples and then shoulders his backpack. He ducks his head away from the security cameras pointed near the front door, briefly considers crushing them, decides against it because that would be rude, and then walks inside. The air is blessedly cool against his sweaty face. 

Margie looks up from the front desk and greets him with a smile. “Welcome. Do you have a library card yet?”

The Soldier shakes his head. 

“That’s not a problem, we can get you all set up. We just need your ID and proof of address.”

The Soldier pauses, his throat working. 

Margie’s eyebrows draw downward into a frown. “I see,” she says gently. “You’ve lost them during the recent chaos?”

The Soldier nods. It’s as good an excuse as any. 

“Well, the DMV isn’t open on weekends, and I can’t give you a card without an ID, but I can get you a temporary library card for the day,” says Margie with a small smile. She pulls something out from under the desk. It’s a small plastic card with a barcode and big black letters that say TEMPORARY PATRON. 

Margie scans the barcode and hands the card to him. “Now, you won’t be able to take any items out, but you’ll be able to view everything within the library and use all of the other resources here, including the Internet and the facilities. You’ll need to return the card at the end of the day. There’s an honor code that you won’t steal or damage anything, and I trust you’ll hold to it.” She sends him a stern look.

“Yes, ma’am,” says the Soldier. His hand twitches with the urge to salute, and he clenches it into a fist to stop it.

Margie’s face softens. “Now, is there anywhere you want to start? Anything in particular you’re interested in?” 

The Soldier says quietly, “Captain America. Please.”

“Oh, yes, we’ve got plenty on him. Are you looking for his history or more recent events such as the Battle of Manhattan? Or, of course, the events from the past two days—you’ll need to go on the Internet for that. The Black Widow’s HYDRA data dump has been a very popular search term lately.”

The Soldier blinks. “Everything, please,” he says.

Margie leads him to the stacks and pulls out several heavy tomes, then shows him how to get onto the Internet with his patron number. She puts him at the corner cubicle of the computer station where he can see all the exits. “I’ll be at the front desk if you need any assistance.”

“Thank you,” says the Soldier, eyeing the pile of books sitting next to the computer. He decides to start on the Internet first to get more information about the data dump. He wonders if there’s anything about him in there. He knows he’d been sent on several missions, but the only one he can remember is the helicarriers. 

The Soldier spends all day at the library. He has to pause frequently to manage the growing pit of horror inside him. As he reads through innumerable HYDRA-S.H.I.E.L.D. reports of various missions, scattered images and sounds start to come back to him: blood and guts and bits of bone, splashed brightly against concrete and grass and linens; pleas, screams, groans, moans, gunshots, engines, shattering glass and the distinct sound of choking. Worst of all are the touch-memories: temperature and pressure for his metal hand, and all sorts of nauseating sensations for his flesh one. 

The only good thing _—_ if it can be called good _—_ is that the files contain no mention of either the Winter Soldier or the Asset. He is not sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved. He knows that HYDRA trained him to be a literal ghost, a goal that was significantly aided by cryostasis, but all his Commanders had told him that he was the HYDRA’s most important Asset. He’s not proud of what he might have done, but having that history simply  _ not exist _ is a bizarre and disorienting feeling. 

Learning about Captain America and James Buchanan Barnes doesn’t go much better. Reading through the websites and then the various biographical books gives him a pounding headache that only worsens when he stumbles under the bright lights of the bathroom. He locks himself in a stall and rips off his mask, hanging it on the door with his backpack as he takes deep breaths of recycled air. Then he chances a quick trip to the sink, splashing cold water on his face and drying it. He shoves the mask back on before anyone can come in. 

The Soldier forces himself to stay at the library until it closes. When he returns to the vault that evening, he scribbles down everything he’s learned as he chokes down an MRE he found stashed in a cabinet. It takes hours for him to get all the words out, especially when they’re accompanied by waves of emotion. When he finally checks the clock at the corner of the computer monitor, it reads 2:16 AM. 

The Soldier stares at the neat penmanship on the page with distant surprise. When was the last time he wrote something—and in English? (Has he ever written in Russian? He can’t remember.)

At least it’s easier than typing. 

He slams the journal shut and drops his head in his hands. He’s utterly exhausted, but his mind refuses to shut off, images, sounds, feelings, touch, all cycling together in an endless loop.  He’ll never be able to rest, but he needs to sleep, because it’s part of his self-care, and he can’t unless _—_

Cryostasis. Of course. 

But first, he needs to do the rest of his self-care routine. 

The Soldier does a perfunctory check for injuries _—_ there are none _—_ and then takes a quick shower. He dresses in a fresh set of black, then brushes his teeth and flosses while he waits for his hair to dry. He lays out a set of clothing to wear the next day, then sets the cryostasis timer for six hours and climbs inside the chamber with a sigh of relief. Sleep takes him swiftly as the cold air envelops his body. 


	3. Chapter 3

The Soldier returns to the library the following afternoon after doing more rounds at the thrift shops, where he picks up a waterproof, layered, hooded jacket, a small umbrella, a sturdy water bottle, a container of washing powder for his clothes, and a small shaving kit. He does not recall having to worry about facial hair before, but the stubble he’s acquired has started to itch beneath the mask, so he resolves to incorporate shaving into his self-care routine.

A distant memory tells him regulations forbid beards because they interfere with the way a gas mask seals against his face. It doesn’t seem like something he learned from HYDRA. It’s older, but hard to place.

The Soldier fills up the bottle at the water fountain in the front alcove of the library, then visits Margie at the desk, who winks and gives him the same temporary patron card. She doesn’t say anything about the mask on his face, and for that he is grateful.

He goes to the shelves and picks out some of the same tomes that Margie showed him yesterday, along with a couple more on the Howling Commandos, the elite special forces unit led by Captain America. One in particular, a thin volume titled _Not Just Soldiers: The Pre-War Lives of the Original Howling Commandos Unit_ , catches his eye, and he puts it on top of his stack.

The Soldier sits down at the same corner cubicle with a computer, frowns at the keyboard in front of him, and opens the book.

The first chapter is a brief section on Captain America, a summary of what he’s already read. The book is outdated; it still lists Captain America as dead. The Soldier feels a glancing pain in his chest, like an old wound that has never really healed, as he sees the newspaper headline declaring the Captain’s disappearance into the Arctic. His vision blurs, and he quickly turns the page as he blinks his eyes back into focus.

James Buchanan Barnes stares back at him from a sepia-toned photograph. He’s wearing an old World War II army uniform, tie and coat with perfectly straight lines, hat tilted at an angle. His eyes are bright like the Soldier’s have never been, his mouth curved in a gentle smile as he looks at something off-camera.

The Soldier takes in a slow, deep breath as carnival music and feminine laughter ring faintly in his ears. In his mind, he sees lights bright against the night sky. There’s someone at his side, someone he doesn’t want to lose, someone he want to keep safe—and on a platform, backlit by stage lights, is a man with a car—

And then there’s a terrible screeching in his mind, and a voice gasping _“Sergeant Barnes?”_

The Soldier gasps and opens his eyes. He’s gripping the table with his gloved metal hand, holding on for dear life as his body tilts sideways, already halfway to the ground.

He quickly rights himself and looks around as world comes back into focus. There’s a teenager with huge headphones deep in the throes of playing a video game, a college student who appears to be cross-referencing several different printed articles, and an old woman in the corner reading a romance novel with a salacious cover. The rest of the library patrons still seem to be clustered in the little side room, where the Soldier can hear a faint baritone voice and the excited squeals of small children.

The Soldier’s attention had passed over the room before, but now the images it calls to mind jiggle something loose in his chest. In his mind’s eye he can see three little girls with brown curls, sitting in a circle around a man with a baritone voice and booming laugh—

The Soldier’s eye catches on the book in front of him. _Barnes had three younger sisters: Rebecca, Josephine, and Elizabeth._

His head pounds with the promise of more pain, but he forces himself to read, starting at the top of the page.

_James Buchanan Barnes, commonly known as Bucky, was the oldest son of George and Winifred Barnes. He was known as a charming young gentleman around the neighborhood, with a reputation for being extremely kind despite his rakish demeanor. Barnes was fiercely protective of his sisters, who all grew up to be powerhouses in their own right: Rebecca a political activist, Josephine an investigative journalist, Elizabeth a head nurse at a New York hospital. All three of them  passed away prior to the publication of this book._

The Soldier’s vision blurs. He inhales sharply, his breath damp on his face underneath the mask, and swallows the lump in his throat.

 _Records from Barnes' schooling at St. Joseph's Preparatory Academy show fair grades in most subjects and particular excellence in mathematics. He worked as a clerk for a variety of shops in his neighborhood_ _before being drafted into the army, and there he quickly moved up the ranks to become a sniper. He became a member of the 107th Infantry Regiment, which was captured at the battle of Azzano and sent to a HYDRA labor camp in Kreischberg, Austria—_

The Soldier inhales sharply and quickly flips to the next section. He doesn’t need to read that. He already knows the rest of the story. (Doesn’t he?)

He finishes reading about the Howling Commandos, pushing past flashes of muddy fields, dirty cages, a padded table, and an eerie blue light as he takes diligent notes on each person inside his journal. _Jacques Dernier. Jim Morita. James Montgomery Falsworth (“Monty”). Gabriel Jones (“Gabe”). Timothy Dugan (“Dum Dum”)._ They’re all dead now, too, just like Bucky Barnes’ sisters, and he feels a faint pang of sadness at the realization.

_I thought they’d outlive me. I never thought I’d survive the war. But they—_

The Soldier’s hand spasms and jerks a sharp line across the journal page. He looks at the words with wide eyes, then hastily scratches them out until they’re nothing but an indistinguishable mass of black. Why did he write that? Where did that come from?

He breathes harshly into the mask and quickly pushes away the journal, opening one of the Captain America biographies he didn’t get to read yesterday to distract himself from his rising panic.  

Time passes in a haze as he skims dry descriptions of Captain America’s battle tactics ( _“—he ain’t reckless with our lives, just with his own—”)_ , dramatic speculations on his relationship with Margaret “Peggy” Carter _(“Smile like a whip, Buck, and a right hook just as sharp—”)_ , and various analyses of his character ( _“too dumb to run away from a fight”_ ). Some of the text elicits sense-memories ( _dirt-stained maps and missions and guilt and longing and fear—)_ but most of it rings false. The Soldier scowls and flips past a chapter analyzing Captain America’s cultural influence as a patriotic symbol; the title alone (“Captain America: thinly veiled propaganda for American nationalism”) makes him feel sick.

What greets him on the following page is another photograph: Bucky Barnes with a crooked grin, his arm slung around small, skinny, disgruntled Steve Rogers. The caption reads: _Rogers with his best friend, James “Bucky” Barnes. c. 1939. Image courtesy of Rebecca Proctor (nee Barnes)._

The Soldier’s hand moves of its own accord, brushing against the black-and-white faces. His breath hitches wetly behind the mask, and he swipes quickly at his eyes before his tears can fall. “Steve,” he whispers shakily. There's a deep pain in his core, radiating outward like poison spreading through his veins. He palpates gently, checking for injuries, but there's no sign of a tranq dart or bullet or blade, just a profound and terrible ache that worsens with each minute that he studies the picture.

_“Just one photo, come on, Becca’ll take it —"_

_"Don’t understand why you want a record of my ugly mug, Buck—”_

_“How many times do gotta tell you, Steve, it ain’t ugly—”_

Thoughts come rushing in like a tidal wave that’s been unleashed:

_—why can’t Steve see himself the same way?—_

_—beautiful soul housed in a beautiful body—_

_—does that blush travel all the way down to his chest, or even lower—_

_—would do anything to protect Steve—_

_—little punk better not try getting to the front lines again—_

_—feelings have gone past friendship, they’re wrong, so wrong—_

_—want to feel Steve’s mouth against my own—_

_—just one good memory before I leave—_

_—big now, powerful, Steve can do what he’s always wanted—_

_—can’t lose him, please, please, protect him because I can’t—_

The Soldier’s hand shakes as he flips to a new page in his journal and presses pen to paper, the tip of his fountain pen splattering ink across the page.

 _James Buchanan Barnes_ ~~_wanted_ ~~ _was in love with Steve Rogers._

The words stare back at him, stark black against greyish-white, an irrefutable truth that the Soldier can’t deny.

“Excuse me, sir? The library is closing.”

The Soldier whips around. Margie is standing in the adjacent cubicle, smiling at him gently. “You can leave the books there. I’ll take care of them. Don’t forget to check for any personal items before you go.”

There’s a clear dismissal in her words. The Soldier quickly shoves the journal and pen back into his pocket, then hoists his backpack on his shoulder as he stuffs his water bottle into a side pocket. “Thank you,” he says quietly, ducking his head.

Margie smiles at him. “You’re welcome. Have a safe trip home.”

 _Home,_ he thinks distantly, his mind calling up vague memories of crowded, smoky streets, chatter fading in and out of hearing range, cheap brick buildings and scratched wooden floors. At the center of them all is Steve Rogers: blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, bloody knuckles, and a bruised mouth that on rare occasions would curve into a shy smile.

The Soldier shoves his hands in his pockets and walks back to base with his head down, avoiding eye contact with passersby. The pain in his core has devolved into a dull ache that emanates throughout his limbs, weighing them down with each step he takes. There’s a looming realization forming in his mind, and try as he might, he can’t run from it.

He forces himself to do his self-care routine before he has to face the thought that’s been haunting him ever since he entered the Smithsonian. MRE. Shower. Clothes. Teeth. Cryosleep timer set for 7 hours. The shave will have to wait till tomorrow, when his hands aren’t shaking so much.

The Soldier sits down at the desk and opens the journal to a fresh page, holding it flat with his metal hand. Then he writes:

 _I_ _~~AM~~ _ _WAS JAMES BUCHANAN “BUCKY” BARNES._

The Soldier takes a deep breath, in and out, then adds:

_NOW I AM_

He stops, suddenly at a loss.

Who is he?

He was Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers’ best friend. And then he was the Fist of HYDRA, HYDRA’s greatest Asset. (How he got from one to the other is not something he wants to consider at the moment, or ever, if he is being honest.) Now he was—he _is_ the Soldier.

_"Soldier, what is your name?”_

_"I have no name.”_

“I have no name,” echoes the Soldier, and the words leave a sour taste on his tongue.

_“Every person has a name, Soldier.”_

_“I am not a person. I am a weapon.”_

The ache pervading his body transmutes into a roiling anger. That’s not true.

He is a person. He has always _been_ a person. HYDRA tried to transform him into a weapon. Even more than that, they tried to turn him into only a weapon, tried to program him to respond only to commands, operate only with the parameters of a mission. Whenever he showed one ounce of independent thought, he got put into the Chair.

The Secretary had recognized the folly in that method. He had given the Soldier the freedom and tools to perform self-care like a human being. But even he had placed restrictions on the Soldier. He’d told him not to worry about fixing the arm, but the arm—as complex and alien as it is—is still part of the Soldier’s body.

And the Secretary had still placed him in the Chair, the Soldier realizes. What had been the purpose of that? To truly keep the Soldier focused on the mission? Or to make sure the Soldier could not think on his own?

Perhaps it was both. His gut roils with bewildered betrayal.

The Soldier heaves a deep breath, clutching his head in his hands as he tries to focus on the present. He does not know if he is Bucky Barnes, but that does not matter. He knows he is more than HYDRA’s Asset,. He may even be more than just the Soldier. His primary mission must now be to figure out exactly who he wants to be.

The thought of a clear goal calms him, bringing his heart rate down to a manageable level. Exhaustion seeps into his bones as he climbs into the cryo tube and closes his eyes. Sleep overcomes him even before he begins to feel the cold.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: very minor reference to past humiliation / sexual harassment in this chapter.

It takes a long time for the Soldier to figure out who he is. 

He starts by learning how to be a civilian. Instead of doing just enough to blend into crowds, he carefully begins to engage in society like those he observes around him. 

The first thing he does is find a way to earn money. He picks up a manual labor job that involves clearing out the helicarrier and Triskelion wreckage from the Potomac. It’s risky being so close to the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, so he keeps an eye out for any familiar faces. (He does not think he would consciously recognize any HYDRA agents by face or name, but his gut sometimes remembers what his mind does not.) All the workers have to wear masks and gloves due to the pollutants, so he is not too out of place on-site with his own. He generates some strange glances when he walks back to the base, as the air has cleared enough for most civilians to function without wearing respiratory protection, but one glance at the dirt-stained reflective vest seems to spark their acceptance. 

He collects his wages in cash at the end of each day and places it in his wallet, which he keeps on his person at all times. At first, he simply stores all the money in the folds of the wallet, but when he runs out of MREs to eat after a week, he ventures out to a convenience store near the cleanup site and uses the money to buy a variety of packaged sandwiches to eat throughout the day. He does this for a week before progressing to a grocery store. While he still picks up sandwiches — the base has no cooling unit other than the cryostasis tube, which cannot be contaminated with food — he also stocks up on fresh fruit, potato chips, and other items that can be left out for a few days without spoiling. 

The other members of the crew do not question the fact that the Soldier never reveals his face, or that he goes off on his own to take his lunch and water breaks. Many of them have secrets too, and the chatter the Soldier overhears in various foreign languages is never about him. He has been careful not to show he has more strength than the average male with his proportions, even if he is sometimes tempted to speed up the work with his metal arm. 

The cleanup job lasts a month and a half, and the Soldier stays till the very end even as some of the workers move on to other jobs offering better pay or conditions. On the last day, the foreman, Charlie, claps him on the shoulder and offers him a place on the crew for a new project starting next week. The Soldier agrees on the condition he can keep wearing his own mask.

“You got some kind of immune problem or something?” asks Charlie, his forehead wrinkling. 

The Soldier nods. “I got the mask custom-made in an experimental medical trial. I can wear others, but this one works best for my body.” It’s not really a lie. 

“All right, Darth Vader,” Charlie says with a laugh. “Show up at 7 AM next week and I’ll get you started. You snooze, you lose, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Vader” becomes his callsign at the new site. He doesn’t mind, even if he doesn’t really understand what it means. He finds it a little funny how close it is to the German word for “father,” but he doesn’t mention it to the other crew members. Instead, he keeps his head down, taking his breaks high up in a nearby tree with no one but the birds for company. 

There are many reasons he feels more comfortable there than on the ground, but one thought tends to linger long after the day ends: James Buchanan Barnes had been a sniper long before HYDRA made the Soldier, and a perch up in a tree often makes an ideal sniper’s nest. Perhaps there is a little of Barnes left in him after all. (Or perhaps there is a lot: the memories have been descending on him with increasing intensity over the course of time. It’s easy enough to push them away when he is working, but once he returns to base he can hardly focus long enough to complete his self-care routine. At least he can induce sleep with cryo.)

A routine develops. The Soldier travels with Charlie to various construction sites throughout the city and provides manual labor. He never fails to show up on time or obey Charlie’s instructions, nor does he cause strife between himself and other crew members. Charlie seems happy enough to both keep him on the crew and continue paying him in cash without proof of identification. The Soldier’s wages gradually increase, and every day he goes home with a thick wad of cash, which he eventually starts storing in neat stacks in the vault’s bank boxes. The irony of finally using them for their intended purpose makes him laugh bitterly.

One day Charlie asks him to stay behind after closing, his mouth turned down in a concerned frown. “Son, I need to talk to you.”

The Soldier waits, his face giving no expression though his heart beats a nervous, quick pattern.

Charlie clears his throat and says gruffly, “This next project is a big deal. It’s got all sorts of red tape. The people in charge want to make sure all their t’s are crossed and their i’s are dotted. You get my meaning?”

The Soldier blinks slowly. “You need my documents?”

Charlie nods. “I’m sorry, son. You’re a good worker, and I hate to lose you. But I can’t take anyone under the table. It’s too high a risk.”

The Soldier swallows hastily and lies, “I have documents, sir.” 

“You do?” asks Charlie with a raised eyebrow.

“I do, sir,” says the Soldier, thinking fast. Margie’s words come back to him. “They got lost in the chaos after the helicarriers crashed, including my ID, and I haven’t had the time to get replacements. But I’ll go and get them tomorrow if that’s what you need.”

Charlie squints at him. “I want to trust you, son, but you understand why I’m a little nervous that you haven’t mentioned this up till now.”

The Soldier nods. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s been difficult. Overwhelming. I’ve just been trying to get back on my feet.”

Charlie sighs. “Don’t make me regret this. Show up on site Friday morning at 6:45 AM with a legitimate ID and proof of residence, show me your face real quick so I can verify it, and I’ll officially hire you on the spot. All right? I’ll bring all the paperwork with me. You can take tomorrow off to get this figured out.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

The Soldier does not go to the DMV or any governmental office the next day. Instead, he pulls on his hooded rain jacket, covers his face with a medical mask from the base’s first-aid kit (his regular mask is too recognizable for his current task), and then slips the five knives he kept from the helicarrier fight under his clothing and into his boots. Then he pulls on his gloves, empties his wallet of all cash except a few $100 bills, and takes the Metro fifteen miles northeast. When he gets to his intended location, he blows out a breath and knocks in the pattern he remembers overhearing from a conversation between some workers on the Triskelion cleanup site. 

A middle-aged man with a weathered face answers the door with a frown. “You need something?”

“Multipass,” says the Soldier. 

The man grunts. “Come on in.”

The Soldier follows the man down a set of stairs and into a bare, concrete room that smells heavily of cigarette smoke. There is a lone camera on a tripod, a white backdrop, and a couple of tall light stands clustered around a rickety wooden stool. The man directs him to the stool while he sets up the photography equipment and turns on the noisy laptop sitting on a table in the corner. 

“You got a specific name you want?”

The name falls out of his mouth before he can stop himself. “James.”

The main gives him an unamused look. “James as the first name or the last name?”

“First.”

The man sniffs. “How about a last name?”

“Barnes?”

The man doesn’t blink an eye. “Okay, James Barnes. Gotta get your photo now. Drop the mask.” When the Soldier hesitates, the man huffs and waves his hand impatiently. “Listen, kid, I’ve seen it all. Scars, tattoos, burns, moles bigger than a silver dollar. Nothing is going to surprise me now. It ain't high-res, and I ain’t keeping it. So hurry up and show me that pretty face of yours.”

The Soldier grimaces at the last sentence. It pings something in the back of his mind — fear, shame, an escalating sense of humiliation that makes him want to run. He forces himself to remove the mask, and then he roughly pulls the hood off his head, nearly dislodging the low ponytail he’s been keeping his hair in ever since he started working. 

“All right, turn and face center, look straight at the camera,” says the man. “And no smiling.”

The Soldier wouldn’t be able to smile now if he tried.

The camera goes off three times in quick succession, each click accompanied by a blinding flash that reminds the Soldier unpleasantly of the Chair. 

The man clicks around the laptop, then turns on various printers next to it. The ID card ekes out first from a specialized printer, followed by a stack of pseudo-legal documents such as a utility bill and rent receipt matching the location on the card.

“Congratulations,” says the man, picking up the card and holding it up to the light. “You’re James Barnes now. That’ll be $500.”

The man waits until the Soldier has handed him the money before he gives him the card and the envelope of documents. The Soldier’s eyes widen as he spots the name printed in big black letters on the ID.

JAMES BAURNS

“Problem?” asks the man, crossing his arms over his chest.

The Soldier —no,  James — quickly stows the card in his wallet. “No. Thank you.”

The man grunts. “I’ll show you out.”

James spends the return trip hyperaware of the identification documents clutched to his chest and the card burning a hole in his pants pocket. He tamps down a frisson of disappointment at not getting the correct spelling of “Barnes.” It’s better this way, and at least the two names sound the same. Besides, having the same name as a man thought to be dead for seventy years —and  a man featured in a current museum exhibit — would be an obvious red flag to anyone looking for peculiarities. 

For the rest of the day, James alternates between examining the ID, hand-washing his clothing, and tightening the security on the base. He also calculates his expenses, making a budget of his weekly expenses such as groceries and other self-care supplies. It turns out he has about $5,000 of cash to spare, which would be enough for him to make a quick escape should he return to the base in time.

He frowns in consideration, then puts a $200 stack of twenties into his backpack, which houses a couple spare sets of clothes, two MREs, a bunch of granola and protein bars, some bottled water, and the journals in which he scribbles all his memories, however hazy and unfamiliar they may be. He also puts the knives into various zippered pockets. It never hurts to be prepared for an emergency exit. 

He takes a shower and scrubs a towel through his wet hair, then carefully shaves, examining the angles of his face in the mirror. “My name is James,” he tells himself, letting the words settle on his tongue. “James. I am James Barnes.”

The thought sustains him as he climbs into the cryo tube and closes his eyes, the Soldier mask a comforting weight against his face as he drifts off in the cold. 


	5. Chapter 5

“My name is James,” says the S — James the next morning. He takes out the ID and hands it to Charlie.

“James Baurns, huh?” Charlie scrutinizes the ID, cutting a glance at James. “That your real name?”

“Yes, sir.” It’s close enough, anyway.

“Well, James,” says Charlie, scanning the other identification documents he’s pulled from the envelope, “Show me your face, and you’re hired.”

James winces but obeys, pulling the mask down the minimal amount so that Charlie can get a glimpse of his face. Charlie gives him a sharp nod and says, “All right, you can put the mask back on. Come with me to get your paperwork sorted.”

James has to reference his ID to fill out the sections of the employment form asking for his birth date (listed as July 8, 1984) and his address (some made-up location with a DC zip code). He almost fills in his social security number as 325-57-038 before he remembers that that was Bucky Barnes’ - his? - old serial number from the war. Plus, it’s one digit short of being a valid social security number. James quickly caps the pen before any other subconscious thoughts can escape onto the page, skims to make sure he hasn’t missed any mandatory sections, and then hands the paperwork to Charlie before rejoining the crew. 

“Vader!” one of the crew calls. “You feeling better, kid? Charlie said you got the stomach flu.”

James nods, oddly warmed by the concern. “I’m all right now. Thank you.”

The day passes normally, leading into a rare free weekend. James returns to the library wearing the same medical mask he used on his previous trip. It draws less attention than his Soldier mask, plus he’s starting to associate that one with work and sleep. 

Margie gives him a bright smile as he approaches. 

“You’re back!” 

James nods and hold out his ID and the envelope of documents. “I’d like to register for a library card, please.”

“Oh, excellent.” Margie pulls out the documents with a hum, checking them over and typing in his false information. “All done,” she says, handing the envelope and ID back to him along with a brand new library card.  “Welcome to the library, James.”

“Thank you.”

The library is crowded with high school and college students preparing for exams. Fortunately most have their own laptops, so he’s able to take his favorite corner cubicle at the computer station. 

He pulls up a web browser, clicks around to acclimate himself, and then searches for news on the Avengers. He’d overheard talk of the Black Widow giving the proverbial middle finger to Congress, so he watches a muted video of the entire hearing, carefully studying the Black Widow’s body language while a transcript plays underneath. To the untrained eye, her calm, collected demeanor would be easy to mistake for boredom or apathy, but it’s clear she’s paying close attention to the questions and giving answers that don’t provide any potential ammunition against the Avengers. It’s actually quite impressive. 

(He still hasn’t really figured out why she seems more familiar than the other Avengers, except for Captain America, of course. All he gets are vague flashes of a rocky landscape and the glare of a car in the sun.)

There’s no official news about what the Avengers are planning to do next, only increasingly sensational speculations about their whereabouts. They all appear to be laying low in the aftermath of the so-called “SHIELDRA reveal.” (The 21st century sure does love its portmanteaus, James thinks wryly.)  He does find a small, contained press release about how Stark Industries is hiring former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents displaced by the fall of the agency, provided the agents pass an extremely rigorous background check designed by Stark Industries’ legal team. There are similar offers from the CIA and FBI. 

He wonders vaguely if the Avengers are looking for him. The thought has passed through his mind several times since he left Captain America on the bank of the Potomac, but it’s always been bookended by other things, such as whether he should try to connect the slew of scrambled memories laid out in his journal and make some sort of timeline cataloguing his existence from his supposed death up to the present day, including any missions he completed for HYDRA. Even thinking about starting that project that makes him feel overwhelmed.

There is one thing he knows for sure: Bucky Barnes would  _ never  _ betray Steve Rogers. It feels so important that he opens his latest journal and writes it in all caps on a fresh page, then underlines it three times and draws a box around it. 

Whatever he did as HYDRA’s Soldier, he did based on restricted information that was tailored to make him obey orders without blinking an eye. And with the Chair wiping his memories as part of “mission prep,” he had very limited capacity to question whether HYDRA was truly on the right side. How could he when they controlled every aspect of his life?

Come to think of it, what if everything he’d been taught by HYDRA was wrong? What if the Commander’s “self care routine” was just another means to control him? On the surface, it seemed quite reasonable — sleeping, eating, and healing all had positive effects on the body. But what if…

James blows out a breath and glances at the browser. There’s only one way to find out. 

The first site he pulls up has such a brightly colored background that his eyes tear up. The second is a slideshow of pictures surrounded by salacious ads about celebrity couples. James rolls his eyes and finally finds a nice, clean site on the fifth try. The black letters are set against a mild beige background, and in the corner of the webpage is a photo of a lightly steaming teacup. James sighs in relief and begins to read. 

> **What is self-care?**
> 
> Self-care is the act of deliberately and conscientiously improving your physical, mental, social, and emotional well-being. In other words, it means consciously taking care of yourself in the best way possible. 
> 
> **Top ten tips for self-care**
> 
>   1. _Steam out your stress._ Take a steamy hot shower or bath with the scents of your choice. Let the worries of the day bleed away with relaxing aromatherapy that opens up your lungs and your mind.
>   2. _Sleep tight and right._ Make a good night’s sleep part of your routine. Get 7-8 hours of sleep around the same time every day. (Extra tip: build in a calming night-time routine that reduces screentime and stimulation.)
>   3. _Create yourself in your own image._ Dress and groom yourself so that you love who you see in the mirror every time you look.
>   4. __Perform an act of kindness._ Do something nice for another person. No matter how small it is, it’ll give you a little boost of happiness._
>   5. _Take care of your body like the temple it is._ Eat healthy food and get a little bit of regular exercise every day. Even a simple walk around the block can give your immune system a significant boost.  
>   6. _Be present_. Nothing matters more than the here and now. Keep your mind on the world around you and avoid unnecessary stresses from your past regrets and your unknown future.
>   7. _Exorcise your emotions._ Rather than bottling up your feelings, let them out in a healthy and safe way. Keeping a diary, talking to a trusted friend, or getting professional help from a therapist are all helpful ways of doing this.
>   8. _Track your thankful moments._ Record the moments you feel gratitude using a notes or voice app on your phone or in a small notepad that you carry around with you. Review those moments every day before bedtime.
>   9. _Make “me time” a priority._ Take some set time for yourself every week to do something you enjoy, such as reading a good book, listening to your favorite music, or catching up with an old friend.
>   10. _Give your living space the same love you give yourself._ Clean up your living space on a regular basis. A de-cluttered environment does wonders to clear your mind and lift your mood.
> 


James wishes he’d thought to copy his original self-care list from the base’s computer into his journal so he could compare the two. As it is, the list on the screen isn’t too different from his. There are just a few additions and modifications he needs to make to his routine.

He almost starts copying the online list verbatim, but then his eye catches on the printer right next to the cubicle. He can print up to 20 pages for free, and he doubts the list will take that many. It’s not difficult to figure out the interface, and soon he’s acquired a paper copy of the list without even leaving his seat. He reads through it again, brow furrowing as he makes notes on how to improve his own routine and doing additional online searches as needed. He’ll need to pick up a number of items from the supermarket, hardware store, and grocery store in order to complete all the tasks. 

When his hand cramps after a round of notes, he puts down his pen and lets his flesh hand rest on the table while he looks speculatively at his left arm. Beyond overheating after getting dunked into Potomac, the metal arm has functioned adequately so far. However, if it ever starts to malfunction, he’ll need to know how to fix it. 

Searching “prosthetic arm” does not give him much except for photographs of arms much less advanced than his. Searching “prosthesis with neural interface” and other jargon the HYDRA scientists mentioned in passing leads to scholarly articles with long, confusing titles hidden behind various paywalls. He settles for studying electrical circuits for a while, which feels familiar in a way he can’t really name. Logic tells him that he’s probably looked at diagrams of explosives before, though he has no memory of doing so. 

He moves from circuits to human anatomy, focusing specifically on the muscles, nerves, and blood vessels that make up the arm and shoulder. Without his maintenance manual, the only copy of which got burned before he reached the base, there’s no way he’ll be able to completely understand how HYDRA designed and attached the arm, but that’s not going to stop him from trying to figure it out. 

By the time Margie comes to tell him the library is closing, James’ eyes are dry from staring at the screen too long. He folds his printouts carefully and slides them into the journal’s front cover, quickly checks to make sure he has his wallet, and then walks to the large hardware store a few blocks away.

It’s late when James finally returns to the base. He lets out a long, low sigh as he unloads all of his cargo onto the floor. He only has time to do one major improvement to his self-care routine today.

The tankless electric hot water heater works like a dream. James nearly jumps out of his skin at the first brush of warmth. He can’t remember, of course, the last time he took a hot shower; perhaps he’s never had one at all. A second revelation comes when he tries out the shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and loofah that he picked up from the grocery store. The mild scents mix together in such a pleasing, subtle combination that he spends a long time simply sniffing the air. For the first time, he finds himself reluctant to end his shower, and he stays in the water until his fingers start to prune. 

His hair feels soft and his skin feels smooth when he dries off using a new fluffy towel purchased that day. James studies himself in the mirror as he brushes his teeth, surprised by the soft light in his own eyes. He doesn’t know if he’s happy, exactly, but he certainly feels better. More content. 

He wonders how he’s going to feel when he completes all the improvements to his self-care routine. 

He tries to imagine it as he climbs into the cryo tube: a life full of warmth, joy, even love, like the ones depicted on the ads on the billboards he passes on the street. He can’t, and the thought makes him sad. With a sigh, he lets the cold wash over him. It chases away the thoughts and quickly lulls him to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next month, James continues to improve his self-care routine according to the specifications on the list, which he tapes to the computer table next to the cryo tube.

He maintains the same eating, sleeping, and hygiene schedule, and he begins to develop an exercise routine to supplement the physical activity he gets on construction sites. He runs laps up and down the stairs in the base, and he also buys a heavy duty punching bag and hangs it right where the Chair used to sit. However, he wraps his hands before using it, even the metal one, because taking care of his body is important.

Tidying up his living space was one of the first things he’d done, and that had included getting rid of the scraps of the Chair and other various equipment left behind by HYDRA. After doing research at the library, he’d carefully disassembled all the various parts and dumped them at safe disposal sites throughout the city. Now, save for the cryo tube, its attached computer, and James’ possessions clustered in the bathroom, the interior of the base contains nothing but bare concrete, iron gates, and exposed wiring. It should feel bleak, but it’s oddly freeing. James cleans the base twice a week to prevent dust from building up. The action always gives him a small burst of accomplishment. 

On his days off, James visits the library with his medical mask and catches up on all the history he’s missed. He looks up pop culture references mentioned by his coworkers — he finally understands the “Vader” reference — and skims through summaries of wars and treaties and revolutions from the past six decades. Sometimes certain words or descriptions ping memories of missions, which he can stave off with some quickly implemented grounding techniques — another thing he learned from the Internet — and rapid scribbling in his journal. He does have to run to the bathroom to throw up more often than not, and on a few rare occasions he actually flees all the way back to the base. On those days, he sticks himself in the tube for a 30-60 minute nap, which usually resets his body enough that he can function for the rest of the day.

There’s been no official Avengers activity since the press conference with the Black Widow, but it seems like there’s a new story every day about yet another alphabet agency discovering a HYDRA infiltration in its ranks. James can’t help but feel guilty as he scrolls through the headlines. He facilitated all of it, directly and indirectly, and even though he didn’t know exactly what he was doing, he still feels responsible. He’ll never be be able to make up for all of it, but the least he can do is try by putting some good back into the world. 

On a sunny afternoon at the tail end of a grocery run, James is walking out of the store, weekly sandwiches and snacks tucked safely into his backpack, when a high-pitched voice calls out, “Hey, mister! Mister! With the mask! Wait a second!”

James halts, wheels around, and scans the air with a frown.

“Down here,” says another high-pitched voice.

James looks down. There are two little girls sitting at a low table. A middle-aged woman hovers behind them, assessing him warily.

“Hey, mister,” says the girl who originally spoke, “you want a drink?” She taps the cardboard sign taped to the front of the table, which proclaims “LEMONADE! AND BAKE SALE!” in bright, bold colors.

“We’ve got lemonade,” says the other with a wide, gap-toothed smile. “‘S only a dollar per cup. But we’re taking tips.” She points to a jar that’s been wrapped up with red and white construction paper. 

“You’d be supporting the Girl Scouts,” says the first girl, grinning. “Sorry, we’re not selling the Girl Scout cookies, but we got some homemade stuff you can buy.”

“What are the Girl Scouts?” asks James before he can stop himself. He takes a step closer, examining the wrapped goods on the table. There are chocolate chip cookies, cookies with bright candies baked into them, cookies with bright icing designs of flowers and smiley faces, brownies, and a cube made of sticky rice.

The first girl gasps. “You don’t know? How do you not know what the  _ Girl Scouts _ are?”

At this, the woman steps in. “Don’t be rude, Alicia.” She sends James an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, sir. The Girl Scouts are a non-profit organization promoting the leadership development of girls. These two - my daughter Alicia and her friend Jessie - are hosting a bake sale to help raise money for their local troop. Um, their local branch.”

“Oh,” says James, blinking, and he remembers item #4 on the self-care list:  _ Perform an act of kindness _ . Surely helping out a girls’ leadership organization counts, although the name Girl  _ Scouts  _ niggles at him; he wants to call them Girl  _ Guides  _ for some reason. 

“So, you want something? They’re all delicious! We made them ourselves!” asks Jessie. “My favorite’s the chocolate chip, but everything’s good.”

“They could make you feel better,” adds Alicia. “Since you’re sick and all. I know because you’re wearing one of those breathing masks.”

“You’re not supposed to point that out,” Jessie scolds Alicia in a stage whisper. “Besides, he might just be a doctor or something. They wear them when they do operations, haven’t you seen that on TV?”

“Girls,” says Alicia’s mother with a long-suffering glance at James. “Focus, please.”

James’ lips twitch upward into a smile. He pulls out his wallet. “Uh - I’ll take one of everything?”

Alicia’s eyes widen.  _ “Everything?”  _ She frantically picks treats off the table while Jessie shakes out a plastic bag and holds it open for her so she can dump them in. “Uh. That’ll be, uh -”

“Twenty dollars,” Jessie answers with a bright grin. She glances back at Alicia’s mother. “Right?”

“Right,” says Alicia’s mother, clearly hiding a laugh. 

James hands Jessie a $20 bill, and then he adds in a couple of $1 bills to the tip jar. 

Alicia thanks him enthusiastically. “Thanks, Mister! I hope you feel better!” 

James blinks. “Thank you.’

“You’re welcome!”

The cookies are delicious, and so is the sticky rice square. He eats them all within an hour. 

The next week he finds himself holding open a door for an elderly woman at the grocery store. This quickly progresses into helping her load her groceries into the trunk of her car. She tells him her name is Dottie and that she appreciates him looking out for the health of others. “I wish everyone would wear a mask when they feel ill,” she says, “You know, when you’re my age, the smallest cold can kill you. I know the end of my life is coming any minute, but I still want to go on my own terms, not coughing and hacking my way into a slow death at a hospital.”

James thinks of Steve Rogers’ frequent bouts of pneumonia, which he’s recalled in bits and pieces over the past few months, and he nods. “I understand.”

Dottie looks at him with a soft smile. “Yes, I think you do.”

James also begins to keep a gratitude journal, jotting down moments he’s thankful for once he gets back to base. Writing the words on the page leaves him feeling oddly exposed, but reading through the list before sleeping gives him an extra dose of warmth before he goes into the cold. 

In the end, the only self-care task he struggles to complete is #9: _Make “me time” a priority. Take some set time for yourself every week to do something you enjoy, such as reading a good book, listening to your favorite music, or catching up with an old friend._ Does watching the moon landing over and over at the library count as “me time”? He certainly enjoys doing that. His only old friend still living is Steve Rogers—if he can even be considered a friend—and James doesn’t even entertain the thought of contacting him. Peggy Carter is apparently still alive, too, but James feels so guilty about the fact that he helped ruin her S.H.I.E.L.D. legacy that he doesn’t even look into contacting her. He finally settles on checking out novels from the library after finding himself wandering into the science fiction section on multiple library visits. Bucky Barnes had liked pulp novels; it turns out the person he is now does too. 

Life continues in a relatively steady holding pattern up until mid-summer. In the last week of June, Charlie informs the crew that they have the 4th of July off and encourages them all to go to the Parade at the National Mall. “I hear Captain America himself is going to be there,” he says with a chuckle, “Probably to make up for destroying over half the jobs in the city when he blew up the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in April.”

James resolves to stay in the base that day. 

“Tomorrow a rep from SI — that’s Stark Industries — is going to visit the site. SI’s the big boss on this project, top of the food chain — don’t ask me to explain all the details, it’ll take me the whole day. None of you all need to worry about it. I’ll handle the business talk. You all just keep on working and doing a good job. Oh, and wear  _ all  _ your safety gear when you show up on site. I know some of you like to skip out on the goggles, but we’ve gotta be 100% in line tomorrow.”

James frowns. SI has a famously close relationship with the Avengers, and being in such close proximity to an SI rep is a definite security risk. However, most of his face is covered thanks to the mask, and if he wears his safety goggles and hard hat it’ll be hard to distinguish anything any other facial features.As always, he’ll be wearing gloves and long sleeves to cover his metal hand. The crew’s never questioned it, and neither has Charlie, even though summer temperatures hit weeks ago. 

He shows up to the site next day despite his misgivings, warily glancing at the SI rep that Charlie’s shaking hands with outside the fence. The rep is a brunette woman in a pantsuit, and when her face doesn’t spark any recognition in his head or his gut. She’s probably not from HYDRA, then, and she might not even be affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D.

James works the entire day normally, taking extra precautions to secure his usual lunch break spot up a tree before he takes off his mask and devours his sandwiches. He also takes a longer route back to base, doubling back several times to throw off any potential tails. Perhaps he should have set up security cameras after all, he thinks as he walks down the stairs, glancing at the corners where they used to be mounted. He checks the perimeter of the base three times and secures everything as best he knows, even locking all three of the gates that lead into the vault. 

James takes a nice, long, hot shower, trying to soothe the anxiety simmering under his skin. He surveys his domain as his hair dries, checking to make sure his essentials (ID, important documents, spare clothes, journals, cash, knives, and food) are in his backpack. He leaves out his annotated self-care list, verifies that he doesn’t have any library books to return, and then sets the cryostasis timer and opens the tube. If he wakes up tomorrow and feels like something is wrong, he’ll make a run for it if he needs. But he’s worked too hard to establish this life, and there’s no need to throw it all away because one Avengers-adjacent rep happened to visit his job site. 

He breathes out slowly as he climbs into the cryo tube, letting the dark and cold wash over him as he closes his eyes. 


	7. Chapter 7

There are voices filtering in through the hissing of the cold.

_“_ _—_ _a prisoner, clearly not_ _—_ _why would_ _—_ _do this to himself_ _—_ _”_

_“_ _—_ _tube’s opening now_ _—_ _”_

_“_ _—_ _stand by_ _—_ _”_

James opens his eyes.

Captain America is standing in front of the tube, shield held in front of him defensively.

James sucks in a quick breath, his heart beating a panicked rhythm. Relief floods his veins as he realizes his mask is still on his face. Of course _—_ he always wears the mask in cryo, as it helps him recover faster by filtering the cold air. Which means Captain America isn’t wearing a horrified expression because he recognizes James as James Buchanan Barnes, but because he…

Oh. He recognizes James as the Winter Soldier.

This is a problem.

James scans his periphery as he waits for his limbs to regain sensation. The Black Widow and Falcon are on either side of Captain America, penning James in so the only direction he can go is forward.  

James slowly puts his hands up. Everybody tenses at the movement. “I’m not armed,” he says in a hoarse voice. “Can I step out?”

“Yes,” says Captain America. “Slowly, please.”

James does.

“We’re going to scan you for weapons,” says Falcon. “No sudden movements.”

James forces himself to keep the same position, shivering uncontrollably as Falcon taps his wristband and circles him, running a laser up and down his body. His eyes drift to his bag under the table. It looks untouched. Good. Maybe they haven’t seen his ID or his journals or figured out exactly who he used to be. It’s a stupidly optimistic thought, but it’s the only one keeping him from panicking.

“We need to see your face,” says Widow. “Take off the mask.”

“No,” James says, suppressing a flinch. Refusing so brazenly still makes his body think he’s about to get punished. “Please? I _—_ I need it.”

“It’s fine to keep it on,” says Captain America, ignoring the glare Widow shoots at him over James’ head.

“Thank you.” James shivers again, his teeth chattering behind the mask.

“Is there anyone else here?”

“No,” says James. “They’re all gone. This place was abandoned when I found it.”

Captain America exchanges a loaded glance with Falcon.

“Who’s ‘they’?” asks Widow. Her gaze hasn’t left him at all.

“HYDRA,” answers James.

Captain America sucks in a breath.

James hastens to reassure him. “I’m not working for them anymore. I haven’t since the helicarriers fell.” He looks at each Avenger guiltily. “I’m sorry I tried to kill all of you. And for everything else I did, too.”

Falcon clears his throat, tapping his wristband. “I’m done with the scan. At ease, Soldier.”

James drops his arms with relief, then wraps them around himself, rubbing up and down to try to get warm.

“Is there a specific routine you go through after coming out of cryostasis?” asks Captain America.

James nods. “I wipe down with warm water, and then I brush my teeth and drink a bottle of water. I shave. I eat breakfast, and then I go to work.”

“Work?” Widow asks.

James nods. “Construction. I _—_ I should…call in...” He should let Charlie know he’s not coming. He doesn’t want to let the man down. But James has never had a phone and has never set up an email, and now he’s at a loss for getting in touch. He’s always just shown up to the site on time.

“I don’t think that’s feasible right now,” says Widow in a neutral tone.

James’ shoulders slump. “You’re taking me in.”

Captain America nods. His jaw is set in a way that James instinctively recognizes as “adamant.” There’s no swaying him from this decision, not that James would even try.

James swallows the lump in his throat. This is it. He’s going to be spending the rest of his life, however long it may be, in a cell. He’s never going to see Charlie or any of the crew again, never going to listen to their banter as he eats lunch with the birds. He’s never going to greet Margie at the library and check out science fiction novels or look up videos of rocket launches from his favorite corner cubicle. He’s never going to go back to the grocery store and buy his favorite sandwiches at the deli. The loss is sudden and sharp, and he quickly blinks away the tears filling his eyes.

“I’ll come quietly,” James says, not hiding his resignation.

“Thank you,” says Captain America. He’s searching James’ face like he’s looking for something, and James stares back at him like a rabbit caught in a trap. Maybe Captain America can see the face of Bucky Barnes through the mask somehow. Who knows what kind of technology the Avengers have these days?

Falcon clears his throat again, and Captain America drops his gaze. “Is there anything you want to take with you before you go?” asks Falcon. “We cleared the base while you were in cryostasis, so the knives and razors are gone, but you’re welcome to take anything else with you.”

“My backpack,” says James immediately, glancing at it.

Captain America nods and picks up the backpack. Then he hands it to James.

James takes it, surprised.

“Anything else?”

James hesitates. “The list on the table. And everything in the bathroom. The clothes, the towels, the shower things, the dental kit.” He silently mourns his portable water heater, magical producer of steam; there’s no time to uninstall it now. “Thank you.”

“Widow and I will get those for you, along with a warm towel for your wipe-down,” says Falcon. “Cap?”

“I’ll wait here,” says Captain America.

James realizes they’re telling him this for his benefit. They could easily take him down, cuff him, and drag him to whatever vehicle they’re using for transportation, especially since he wouldn’t be resisting this time. Instead, they’re treating him almost like a person. Giving him choices. Letting him have things _—_ _his_ things. Waiting with him like he’s an equal and not a prisoner. He doesn’t understand, but he’s grateful anyway.

“Here,” says Captain America, carefully unpeeling the list from the table and folding the tape over so it doesn’t catch on anything. “This is yours.”

“Thank you,” says James. His hand shakes as he takes the list and shoves it into the nearest pocket of his bag. The cold is settling into his bones now that the initial shock of seeing the Avengers is wearing off. He goes back to rubbing his arms, frantically trying to warm up.

“You’re welcome.” Captain America takes a deep breath, in and out, glancing at the cryo tube controls on the screen before moving his gaze back toward James. It’s clear he’s stopping himself from asking questions. James almost wishes he would. The awkward silence between them is unbearable.

It takes eight minutes for Widow and Falcon to gather his things from the bathroom and presumably clear them for toxins or other weaponry. Captain America is visibly relieved when they return, dropping his rigid facade for a full minute before he regains his stance.

“Got it all,” says Falcon. He drops a duffel bag on the floor bearing the Avengers logo and holds out a damp, warm towel that James takes gratefully. “I have to say, I’m impressed with your choice of shampoo. Sulfate-free? That’s the good stuff for waves like yours.”

“Thanks?” says James hesitantly as he wipes down his exposed skin. Normally he’d strip and get everything, but there’s no way he’s going to do that now unless they make him.

Falcon’s lips twitch upward. “You’re welcome.”

“Go ahead and get dressed, then we’ll head out,” says Captain America, nodding towards the duffel. He must not know James has clothes in the go-bag. “You can put on your boots, too.”

James tries not to feel too exposed as he kneels and opens the duffel, pulling out a long-sleeved t-shirt, a hoodie, and a pair of jeans. After he’s dressed, he grabs his boots out from underneath the computer table and slips them on. His fingers are numb and don’t want to work with the laces, but he eventually gets them tied. Then he slowly rises, grabbing his backpack and settling it on his back.

“You need anything else to get warm? I’ll get you a shock blanket when we get in the car.” Falcon nods towards the duffel bag. “You want to get that, or should I?”

“I can do it.” James then adjusts the shoulder strap of the duffel and lets it rest crosswise against his body, bearing most of the weight on his metal shoulder. Nobody stops him.

In the corner, Widow straightens up from where she’s been affecting a bored lounge in an attempt to get James to let down his guard. “Let’s go.”

Captain America leads them out of the base. James follows behind, and Falcon and Widow take up the rear. James notes with surprise that everything is undamaged except for the doors to the inner gates, which are lying askew on the floor. Captain America probably knocked them off their hinges with his shield.

They all pile into an armored black SUV parked right outside the false front door. Widow drives, and Captain America takes the front passenger seat. Falcon stays in the back with James, who’s still unrestrained. James watches the bank exterior fade out of sight as they turn a corner. It doesn’t blow up. Maybe the Avengers are keeping it around for intel.

Falcon clears his throat. “I’m guessing you have a lot of questions.” His body language is open and relaxed, but James notes the knife in his jeans pocket anyway. Falcon follows his gaze and lifts an eyebrow, continuing, “We have a lot for you, too, so we’re proposing an exchange. You ask a question, we’ll answer, and then we ask a question, you answer. I’ll speak for all three of us so that the odds are even.”

James clutches his bags protectively in his lap, trying to find the trap in Falcon’s words. There is none. “I...accept,” he finally answers.

"Great. Mind if I go first?”

James shakes his head.

Falcon doesn’t hesitate. “What should we call you?”

James hesitates, weighing his options for a long minute. “Soldier,” he finally answers. Anything else is too close to Bucky Barnes.

Falcon’s brow furrows, and he looks like he wants to say something more, but all he does is nod. “Okay, Soldier. Your turn.”

James takes a deep breath. “How did you find me?”

“Honestly? We weren’t even looking for you. We were just investigating the base.”

James studies Falcon’s face for a lie, but he can’t find one. He breathes the slightest sigh of relief. It’s likely the SI rep at the site didn’t tip them off, and Charlie and the crew don’t have to get involved in any way, after all.

Falcon blows out a breath through his teeth and says, “The cryostasis tube. You put yourself in it?”

“Yes. It’s for sleeping.”

“Sleeping,” Falcon repeats, looking thoughtful.

James looks away, embarrassed. “The Sec _—_ Alexander Pierce. He said…” James swallows and takes in a shuddering breath. “Said that sleeping in the tube was part of self-care. Made the techs teach me how to operate it. HYDRA was wrong about a lot of things, but the self-care they taught me was mostly correct, if incomplete." James exhales slowly. "Why...weren’t you looking for me?”

“Other high-priority items,” says Falcon. “We would have eventually gotten around to searching for you, but there was a high probability you died in the Potomac and no indication of any Winter Soldier activity.”

James isn’t sure whether to feel relieved, disappointed, or insulted. Maybe a little of all three.

“Have you ever tried sleeping without the tube?” asks Falcon.

James shakes his head. “I don’t think I could even if I tried. The memories, they’re overwhelming—” He snaps his mouth shut before he can reveal anything by accident. Captain America is right there, after all, and he’s not even pretending that he’s not listening. James takes a deep breath and asks, “What happens now?”

“We’re taking you to Avengers Tower. You’ll be under Avengers custody until we can assess what to do next as a team.” Falcon studies the expression on James’ face. It must not be anything good, because Falcon frowns and says, “You’ll be under maximum security, but you’ll be treated humanely. Any medical support you need will be provided, and you’ll be allowed to keep your own things. They’ll only be confiscated if you end up trying to hurt another person with them.”

James wants to believe Falcon. He knows the Avengers are different from HYDRA, but his mind is still convinced he’s about to be punished and he can’t seem to convince it otherwise.

“Hey,” says Falcon, “Soldier. You all right?”

“Fine,” says James tightly.

Falcon’s expression shifts like he’s about to call James out, then smooths out into a neutral expression. “That was my question. Your turn.”

James tries and tries, but he can hardly think past the anxiety that he’s suppressing. He tells Falcon, “I—I don’t know.”

Falcon nods. “Let’s stop for now. If you do have another question, feel free to ask it. In the meantime, try to get some rest. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

“Probably too late to go to the bathroom, right?” The words roll off his tongue before he can stop them, and he swallows nervously as Captain America does a double-take so abrupt it puts everyone else in the car on guard. The HYDRA handlers never took well to his attempts at humor either.

Widow glances at Captain America, who subsides and sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. “Everything’s fine,” he mumbles.

“Do you actually need a toilet break, Soldier?” asks the Widow dryly after a moment of silence. “Because I think there are disposable urine bags somewhere in this car. We can arrange for a little privacy. Falcon was pararescue, he can help—”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” says Falcon with an exasperated glance at Widow. He turns his gaze back to James. “But seriously—do you need to? I’m sure we can figure out a way for you to relieve yourself with some privacy and dignity.”

“I’m fine,” says James. If anything, he’s dehydrated, but he’s not going to take off his mask, so he’ll have to endure for however long it takes. He went through much worse as the Soldier.

He spends the rest of the drive in numb silence, towns, cities, and rural landscapes passing by in a blur. Falcon shoots him concerned looks every now and then, and James thinks he should be grateful, but it’s hard to do so when he can barely hear past the nervous pounding of his heart.

When they reach Avengers Tower, James only has a moment to realize that they’re pulling into an underground garage before Widow parks the car directly in front of an elevator. Widow types in a code, too rapidly for James to make out, and then Falcon and Captain America do the same. The elevator opens with a _ding_ , and the three Avengers gently herd him inside. James clutches his bags and stares at the numbers as they go up, bracing himself for what’s to come.


	8. Chapter 8

The Avengers leave James alone in the cell with his backpack, the duffel bag, a bunch of MREs, and a dozen bottles of water.

James breathes out slowly, hoists his backpack onto his shoulders, and scopes out the cell.

It’s utilitarian, just as all cells are, but it is still the nicest that James has ever been in. It has fluorescent lighting that prohibits any shadows. There’s a queen size bedframe bolted to the floor, on top of which sits a clean, firm mattress, two pillows (one firm, one soft), and heavy stack of blankets. There are no sheets, not that James expected any, but there are enough blankets that he can layer them on the mattress without having to resort to sleeping directly on top of it.

The bathroom contains a steel toilet, a gleaming sink that is undoubtedly reinforced, and a tiled corner with a small drain presumably meant for showering, though no showerhead is visible even in the ceiling. The water flow and garbage disposal are apparently controlled by vocal commands sent up to an artificial intelligence system named “JARVIS.” A list of instructions is visible on a small screen set into a panel next to the sink. The panel lights up when James touches it with both his flesh and metal fingers, dims after one minute, and then shuts off after two.

“JARVIS,” says James tentatively.

No voice answers back, but the panel lights up and give a small _ding_.

“JARVIS,” James says, squinting at the list on the panel, “Turn on sink.”

There’s a small, barely audible squeak, and then water rushes out of the sink. James tests it with his flesh finger. It’s lukewarm.

James spends several minutes testing and memorizing the commands, turning the shower and sink on and off and adjusting the water temperature until he finds its extremes (21 degrees Celsius for cold, 48 degrees Celsius for hot). He gives the panel an impressed glance when it does, indeed, flush the toilet upon his instruction. It’s an admirably advanced piece of engineering, and James wishes he could show it to Charlie and the crew. They would have appreciated it.

Above the sink sits a mirror that James doesn’t even bother trying to break. He lets out a small sigh of relief at its presence. Grooming has become an important part of his self-care routine, and having a mirror will certainly aid him in completing that step. Unfortunately, the Avengers took his razor, so he’ll have go without shaving for a while. At least he can still take showers, and warm ones, too.

The bathroom has no door, but it is set in an alcove and constructed such that the view of the toilet and shower stall is partially obstructed from the rest of the cell. James examines the hidden space carefully. Although he is fairly sure the entire cell is monitored, there is the slightest possibility that this small section isn’t, which means that the Avengers won’t see his face if he faces the corner and removes the mask. It’s a foolish, desperate hope, but it’s one he holds onto: if or when he reveals that he used to be Bucky Barnes, he wants to do it face-to-face with Rogers, instead of letting him find out by accident through security footage.

James heaves a sigh. Without the ability to go out into society, his options for activities are extremely limited. Although lots of memories have returned over the time he’s been out of HYDRA’s control, the sheer boredom that accompanies imprisonment is something he’d forgotten. Of course, he was usually drugged or unconscious in the little time he did spend out of the ice, so it’s not a surprise.

He paces the cell, calculating its dimensions with the number of footsteps he can take in either direction (the cell ends up being about 400 square feet including the bathroom, and he judges that the ceilings around sixteen feet.). He then proceeds to complete a modified version of his exercise routine, punching the air in lieu of a bag. He follows up with a calming yoga routine he learned from the Internet, which he sometimes uses after a particularly bad onslaught of memories.

The exercise helps, but it doesn’t completely eliminate the undercurrent of anxiety thrumming through his blood. James runs a hand through his hair, suddenly hyper-aware of the sweat dripping down his neck, the clothing clinging to his skin. He grabs the duffel and goes into the bathroom alcove, pulling out his shampoo and body wash and setting them on the floor of the tiled area. He carefully places two folded towels across the sink, moves the duffel and go-bag to the opposite wall under the sink, and then orders JARVIS to turn on the water, letting it run for a few seconds while he strips.

He spends some time adjusting it to the perfect temperature and pressure, just hot enough to generate a little steam and just forceful enough to feel like an embrace instead of a beating. Then he removes his mask with a sigh of relief - sweat had started to pool underneath it during the car ride, and the edges had begun to chafe his skin - and sets it down on the floor, just out of range of the water, and steps inside the spray.

James doesn’t dare tilt his face upward in case there’s a camera hidden in the ceiling. It makes washing his hair a little bit awkward, but he manages, turning his head slightly and running his fingers through his hair to make sure the lather all rinses out. Then he uses one hand to brace himself against the wall as he soaps up the rest of his body, a sigh escaping his mouth as he massages the knot in his left trapezius where the metal arm meets the rest of his body. He drops his head, letting the water leach the tension from the rest of his body, catching a few drops on his tongue as his mouth parts and slackens.

He reluctantly orders JARVIS to shut the water off once his fingers start to prune. He reaches behind him for the towels, using one to dry off his skin and wrapping the other in a turban around his hair. He makes sure his face is completely dry, then he puts the mask back on and dresses in the softest pair of clothes he can find before turning away from the wall. If he’s going to be spending a long time in this cell, completely unarmed, then he might as well be comfortable.

James takes a moment to comb his hair neatly, then steps back out into the main space just as his stomach growls with hunger. He sighs, grabs three MREs and a couple of water bottles, and then squats in the humid tiled corner of the bathroom, digging into the MREs with brutal efficiency. He washes out the taste with half of the other water bottle, then uses the remaining water to brush and floss his teeth, spitting the foam and water directly into the drain. He’d use the sink, but that and the mirror are both easily visible, and it’s not a risk he’s willing to take.

He disposes of his waste in the garbage chute under the sink, which JARVIS opens on request and closes before he can take a good look inside, and then crosses the room and examines the bed. He takes the time to arrange the blankets to his satisfaction, layering softer ones he’ll be sleeping on inside those of rougher make. Then he perches at the edge and presses the heels of his hands against his forehead. The adrenaline from his journey has leaked out of him, leaving him hollow and exhausted, and his head is starting to ache.  

James is tempted to try to sleep, but he’s not sure what will happen without the tube. Memories are pressing in on the edges of his consciousness, and any dreams will undoubtedly blend the reality of who he is now with his former identities and his conscious and subconscious fears. The mix is bound to be unpleasant.

He chooses instead to sit on the bed and settle into a sniper’s stillness, letting time tick forward as he listens to the sound of his own steady breathing. Idly, he wonders what is going to happen to him. His research about the Avengers tells him they’re bound to treat him more humanely than HYDRA, but it’s not like HYDRA set a high bar. The Avengers will probably want information about HYDRA, and James will give it to them freely, even if the thought of revisiting his more gruesome deeds as the Winter Soldier sends a shudder down his spine.

He doesn’t even bother contemplating escape. The odds of him getting past Rogers, Widow, Falcon, Iron Man, Hulk, and whoever else might be in the building is slim to none. Besides, he really does want to help them get rid of any remaining heads of HYDRA. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t have anything to do with HYDRA ever again, but now that he’s here in Avengers Tower, he may as well be useful in taking HYDRA down.

James lets out a sharp puff of air behind the mask, gripping his knees tightly to ground himself in the present.

He’s not sure how long he remains in that position; there is no clock in the cell. A soft ding from the bathroom panel, accompanied by the sudden, bright glow of the screen, startles him out of his trance. He stands and stretches, shaking out the soreness settled into his limbs, and then goes to investigate.

On the panel lies a message. James reads it out softly, his voice muffled by the mask.

_Captain America will come visit you in five minutes to discuss your situation. Please refrain from attacking him or attempting escape when he enters._

James lets out a long, slow sigh. He sits down on the bed, keeping his back straight and his eyes forward, and waits.  



	9. Chapter 9

Captain America is dressed in his uniform with his shield upon his back. He’s not wearing his helmet. James thinks it’s a foolish and reckless choice. How can Captain America leave himself so vulnerable in front of the Winter Soldier? (James wouldn’t hurt him, but still—Captain America doesn’t know that, does he? He always did have too much faith in people.)

“I’m Steve Rogers,” says Captain America.

 _I know_ , thinks James, but he doesn’t say it. “Soldier,” he answers, and he leaves it at that.

Rogers clears his throat and shifts a little, resting his hands on his belt. “How are you liking your accommodations?”

James gives a small shrug.

Rogers stares at him. James stares back.

It is awkward.

“So,” says Rogers after a long silence, clearing his throat. “As you know, you’re under our custody for the time being. You’ll receive three meals a day as well as any medical attention as needed. We are monitoring your vital signs and your activity in this cell, so I would advise against making attempts to sabotage it or escape from it. One of us will come down to talk to you every day so that you’re not spending too long alone. Lights will dim at the same time every night and turn back on in the morning so you’ll be able to get a full cycle of sleep.”

James notes how Rogers carefully does not specify the actual time or duration. When he stares at Rogers in silence, Rogers shifts and continues, “I’m going to ask you some questions now.” He waits for James’ nod, then says, “How many calories do you require a day?”

“10,000, minimum,” says James.

Rogers doesn’t seem surprised at the high number. “Do you have any food allergies or sensitivities?”

“No.”

“Is there anything specific you like to read?”

James blinks, startled at the change in topic.

Rogers looks faintly embarrassed. “We know you had a library card. We figured you might like to read to pass the time, but we didn’t know if you preferred a specific type of book.”

James blows out a breath. “Fiction,” he answers hesitantly, and he doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t think the Avengers will use anything against him, but it never hurts to be careful.

“Okay. Do you have any questions for me or the rest of the team?”

“No.”

“All right. Here’s the plan. Over the next few months, we’ll be asking you for your intel on HYDRA. Coordinates, names, details of your old missions, things like that. You’re free to give us as much or as little information as you want. I hope it’s the former. From what you said at the base, it seems your goals don’t align with HYDRA’s as much as we assumed.”

“They don’t,” says James.

Rogers pauses, looking at James thoughtfully. “What are your goals, Soldier?”

James blows out a breath, glancing at the list taped above the bed. “Take care of myself. Figure out who I am and who I want to be. Do some good to make up for all the bad. Helping you and your team take down HYDRA is part of that.”

“Thank you, Soldier,” says Rogers. His tone of voice and stance are all Captain America. It’s a marked difference to James’ memories of Steve Rogers.

Rogers’ shoulders tighten a fraction, and James tenses, his body bracing for punishment and violence even though he knows Rogers won’t strike him. Rogers’ brow furrows. “At ease, Soldier. I’m not going to hurt you.” He takes in a deep breath and exhales slowly. Then he says, “You know, you remind me of someone I used to know.”

James forces himself to keep a neutral expression, glad the mask is hiding most of his face. His heart beats a fast, panicked rhythm in his ears. He wonders if Rogers can hear it.

“My friend’s name was James Barnes,” says Rogers, the slightest catch in his voice. “That’s similar to the name that was on your employment paperwork.”

James’ mind races. Rogers has seen his paperwork? That’s not good. Did Charlie make a copy of the photo ID? No, and neither had Margie. And James never took the mask off at the construction site, so he might still be in the clear.

He knows he’s grasping at straws. Surely Widow, at the very least, rummaged through all of his possessions while he was in the tube. She has to have seen his ID, noted that he had the same exact face as Bucky Barnes, told Rogers and the rest of the Avengers about what she’d found.

Unless…

Widow’s a spy. She might have her reasons for keeping his identity secret, though James can’t fathom what they are. A chill runs down James’ spine. He doesn’t want to be an unwilling pawn in some game to which he doesn’t know the rules. But he’s a prisoner locked in a reinforced cell, and he doesn’t have much choice. The only thing he can do is try to take care of himself, cooperate, and maybe one day, somehow, earn his freedom again.

“Soldier?”

James instinctively sits at attention, his skin crawling a little with how quickly his body still responds to that name.

Rogers clears his throat. “Are you all right?”

James nods.

Rogers asks, “Why did you pick the name James Baurns?”

James forces himself to keep calm as he answers. “It’s a coincidence. Just an alias. I didn’t know about your friend.” The words leave a bitter aftertaste on his tongue, and he wishes he could take them back.

“A coincidence,” Rogers repeats slowly, narrowing his eyes.

James swallows nervously and looks down at his lap, clenching his hands tight around his knees.

Rogers lets out a long, slow breath. James chances a glance upward. Rogers looks like he wants to say something else, but all he does is clear his throat again. “That’ll be all for now. The lights will dim soon. Good night, Soldier.”

“Good night, Captain.”

Rogers halts mid-step. “You can call me Steve. And if at any point you wish to be addressed with a different name, please let us know.”

James nods. “Thank you. Good night, Steve.”

Rogers’ voice wavers slightly. “Good night.”

James stays on the bed, watching the door to the cell appear as Rogers places his right hand on the wall. The door disappears as soon as all of Rogers’ body is on the other side.

James drops his head in his hand with a sigh, rubbing his temples. Rogers’ visit temporarily alleviated the headache that had formed from trying to hold back his memories, but now it’s come back with a vengeance. James digs through his backpack until he finds his most recent journal and his favorite fountain pen, jumping a little when his annotated self-care list falls out onto his feet. He blows out a breath as he picks it up, carefully picking away at the folded tape at the top until the adhesive is usable again. Then he sticks the list to the wall above the head of the bed. It’s oddly comforting to have a little reminder of his home base in his eyeline.

Rogers features heavily in this new batch of memories. James experiences flashes of joy, anger, exasperation, longing—love—as he relives the experiences in double-time. By the time he’s managed to write them all down, his hand aches worse than his head and his mouth is salty with stray tears that have trickled under the mask. James hastily shuts his journal and swipes at his face, then grabs a water bottle and goes to the shower corner so he can run through his night-time routine in relative privacy.

The lights dim just as James lies down on the bed. He idly wonders if the AI did that on purpose, or whether he happened to fit the lights’ schedule by accident. He’ll have to figure that out later. He stares up at the ceiling and rests his hands over his stomach, feeling uncomfortably exposed on his back. The position reminds him of waking up to yet another unwanted surgery or experiment or treatment, but it’s the only one that won’t make the edges of the mask dig into his skin.

He misses the tube.

The nightmares come in full force just as he’d feared.

He’s fighting Captain America on the helicarrier again, except this time it’s little Steve Rogers who’s clutching the bullet wound in his gut, coughing up blood with a betrayed, accusing expression. “Bucky, why?” he asks, lowering the shield, leaving himself defenseless—but James’ metal arm moves of its own accord even as the flesh one shakes, shooting Steve over and over until he’s nothing but a mass of bloody, shattered bone fragments atop Captain America’s shield. James’ scream catches in his throat, and tries to call out, “Steve!” but his voice won’t come —

—“Steve,” he whispers against the concrete floor, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see his arm rotting away at his side, “Steve, please, where are you”—

And then he’s lying on a metal table, mumbling his name and serial number, and Steve is standing over him, tall and strong and so, so wrong. “Bucky,” says Steve with relief, pulling him upward, “Bucky, oh my God”—and yet Bucky is still lying there, mumbling _Barnes...James...Sergeant...3255_ —

“Sergeant Barnes?” the old man gasps in horror, and the Soldier hesitates for a millisecond before he punches him twice, two jabs right into the skull. _A quick death, a mercy_ , thinks the Soldier as the woman screams, _“Howard!”_ —

James shoots up from the bed with a strangled cry, clutching his head and swallowing down the bile threatening to rise up from his stomach. He staggers over to the bathroom corner, rips his mask off with a clatter, and then throws up directly into the drain.

“JARVIS,” he says hoarsely as he undresses with shaking fingers, “Turn on shower. Coldest setting.”

He’s barely thrown his clothes out of range when the water starts. James sinks down to the floor and wraps his arms around his knees, hiding his face as the cold water beats down upon him. _I killed Howard Stark,_ he thinks, trembling, _and_ _I almost killed Steve._

It’s not the first time he’s had this realization. But it’s the first time the horror, confusion, and grief have completely permeated past the wall of practical rationality he’s been using to survive. He killed Howard Stark right after Stark recognized him—and now he’s living in a prison cell designed by Stark’s son. It feels like poetic justice, in a way.

Rogers is still alive and unharmed, at least, but it’s a cold comfort. The Soldier could have easily killed him on the helicarrier and had almost done so. Rogers had only been saved by luck, when a collapsing beam dropped him into the water before the Soldier could make his final kill shot. A shudder runs through James’ body that has nothing to do with the cold spray of the shower. The Soldier had been so angry that Captain America had succeeded in sabotaging the mission—the _final_ mission—that all he’d cared about was making Captain America pay. But then he’d seen Captain America’s bleeding body floating in the river, and all he could think was—

_I need to save him._

At the time, he hadn’t known where the thought had come from, but now it’s clear. The remnants of Bucky Barnes still left inside of him drove him to save Steve Rogers.

How many fragments of Bucky Barnes remain? And how many of the Soldier? Does it matter?

James blows out a forceful breath, closing his eyes against the spray. The cold, damp stall reminds him of the cryo tube.

He frowns, struck by a sudden inspiration.

“JARVIS,” he says hoarsely, his teeth chattering, “Turn off shower.”

James dries and dresses himself slowly, shivers wracking his body every few seconds. He slips his mask back on and stands, tucking himself into the corner of the shower stall, facing outward. It’s a familiar and comfortable position, especially with the air still chilled around him, and it’s a massive improvement from his supine position on the bed. James closes his eyes and sighs, exhaustion washing over him and pulling his eyes closed.


	10. Chapter 10

Three weeks pass.

James wakes with the lights, eats his delivered breakfast in the concealed shower corner, brushes his teeth over the shower drain, and then returns to the main room with his mask firmly in place. He writes down whatever memories or nightmares he can recall from the previous night in his journal, then runs through a long exercise regimen that begins and ends with calming breathing exercises. After that, he eats lunch, showers and washes his mask, and combs his hair as neatly as he can. When the mask is dry, he reads in the main room until he gets his daily visit from one of the Avengers.

When whoever’s assigned to him leaves, he does a shorter exercise routine, eats dinner, reads, writes down his emotions so he can process the day, and then goes to sleep in the shower stall after cooling it down with the coldest water he can run. Most of the time, he wakes up in the middle of the night, panting and sweat-drenched from the latest nightmare. He takes a cold shower at that point, then sits on the bed for the rest of the night, staring into space and trying to sort out his memories.

It’s not the most exciting routine, but it’s one that still fulfills most of the self-care list. It’s also the only way he can stave off his boredom in his limited environment and avoid sinking into a depression about losing the freedom and friendships of his former life.

At least the food is good. James had forgotten how much he missed hot, fresh meals. 

The Avengers visit him on a regular rotation—three of them do, anyway. Thor is on his home planet of Asgard, Bruce Banner (Hulk) is visiting a friend and guest-lecturing at some university abroad, and Clint Barton (Hawkeye) is overseas on a mission. But Sam Wilson (Falcon) visits three times a week to check on his living conditions and his mental status, and Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow) visits twice a week to interrogate him for intel. Steve Rogers fills in the rest by delivering paperbacks and attempting to make small talk, fumbling just as badly as the Steve Rogers in James’ memories.  

Tony Stark (Iron Man) only comes to see James once, a week into James’ captivity, after James haltingly confesses to Romanoff that the Winter Soldier killed Howard and Maria Stark.

James is sitting on edge of the bed when Stark steps inside. “I’m sorry about your parents,” he says, bowing his head. “If you wanted to execute me now, I would understand and accept your decision. It would be justified.”

Stark halts abruptly, and his faceplate slides open with a hum. “Um, I’m not going to _execute_ you,” he says, appalled. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and there’s a manic glint in his eyes as he rambles, “You’re unarmed and defenseless and imprisoned in my, uh, our tower and—there are conventions to follow, you know? The Geneva ones? Oh, maybe you weren’t around when those were...Anyway. I came in here preparing to be angry, but—whatever the hell my father got mixed up in, whatever he dragged mom into twenty years ago—I know enough about what HYDRA did to you to recognize that you weren’t in your right mind. The arm alone is evidence of years of torture. Speaking of which, the arm. Can I get a scan of it?”

James frowns, disoriented by the sudden change in topic. “What? Why?”

“So I can know how to fix it if it malfunctions, of course. Wait. _Has_ it malfunctioned?”

“After I got out of the Potomac, it overheated a little,” James admits reluctantly. He doesn’t want anyone to touch the arm. He has too many bad memories associated with its repairs and maintenance.

“How much is a little?” Stark persists.

James shrugs. “It stopped on its own. I did some research at the library later on just in case.“

“...Research. At the library. Are you telling me there’s a manual somewhere?”

“HYDRA burned it,” says James. “But I read up on circuits and anatomy through the Internet.”

“I don’t know whether to be impressed or scared that you thought that was sufficient, Robocop.”

James frowns at him. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand that reference. I haven’t seen the movie yet.”

“But you _do_ know it’s a movie, which puts you light years ahead of Captain Gramps,” Stark says, looking impressed. “Are you a sci-fi fan?”

James shrugs. He is, but he’s not going to give Stark or the Avengers any ammunition, and that includes his reading preferences.

Stark huffs. “All right, Tall, Dark, and Mysterious. Keep your secrets. I’m totally going to have your prison-issued paperbacks be a bunch of sci-fi series, fair warning.”

“I’ve already read _Dune_.” The words spill out before he has a chance to stop them. “And its sequels. And the _Foundation_ trilogy by Asimov. And _War of the Worlds_ ” —he almost says “again,” but catches himself just in time, and besides, it’s not strictly true: Bucky Barnes had listened to the radio broadcast in 1938 with rapt attention, Steve Rogers at his side.

“You’ve got surprisingly good taste.” James doesn’t know whether he should feel insulted or not. Before he can figure it out, Stark asks, “Have you been introduced to Douglas Adams yet?”

James shakes his head.

Stark clutches his chest dramatically. “You are missing out. All right, _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ will be delivered tomorrow. You’ll like that one. It has a sad, paranoid robot in it who’s just like you.” Stark’s Iron Man helmet closes over his head again. “Anyway, your arm. Can I?”

James swallows and nods, holding his metal arm out stiffly.

Stark cautiously approaches. “This won’t take long. And it won’t hurt. I made sure of that. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” says James through gritted teeth.

“Three...two...one…” Stark tilts his head and lifts one gauntlet-covered hand, waving it over the metal bicep and down to the finger joints. He does the same on the underside of the arm, then lingers for a moment on the area where the flesh and metal meet. Finally, he does one quick scan of James’ spine, where titanium supports have been implanted to balance out the weight of the metal. The feeling of scrutiny is uncomfortable, but the process is painless just as Stark promised.

“All done,” declares Stark, and he hastily walks backward out the door that’s just reappeared in the wall. “Bye, Robocop. It was nice meeting you. Don’t destroy anything!”

James continues staring at the door for a long time. Then he drops his head in his hands and massages his temples, sighing as he slowly processes what just happened.

 _Stark forgave me_ , _I think,_ he writes in his journal later that night. _I am grateful. It’ll never make up for what I’ve done. But all I can do now is try to keep making it up._ He glances over at the self-care list. #5 sticks out like a sore thumb: _Perform an act of kindness._ With the exception of #2 ( _Sleep tight and right)_ , it’s the only item he hasn’t been able to do since he got here.

He goes to sleep wracking his brain for ways he can be kind to Stark and the other Avengers, and he dreams of Howard. Not Howard at the end of his life, bleeding and gasping his name, but Howard as Bucky Barnes knew him, glowing in the glare of stage lights, just on the edge of cocksure as he shows off his flying car. The car crashes to the stage, and James only faintly registers the sound as he looks around the crowd, heart spiking with panic— _where’s Steve, where’d he go, I need to see him, I need him_ _—_

He wakes with a gasp, wrapping his arms around himself and pushing his sweat-damp hair away from his forehead. The ghost of Bucky Barnes will always haunt him, it seems, and so will his love of Steve Rogers.

James takes a cold shower in the dark, then pulls on his mask and sits on the bed for the rest of the night, staring into the distance and working through a rotation of breathing exercises.

A paperback copy of _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ appears as promised alongside his breakfast the next morning. James spends most of the morning reading it, his mood lifting slightly as he travels through the galaxy with Arthur Dent and his motley crew. And it turns out he can, actually, relate a lot to Marvin the Paranoid Android. The thought inexplicably cheers him up.

Sam Wilson visits that afternoon and raises his eyebrows as he catches sight of James’ face. “Didn’t sleep much last night?”

James shakes his head, cheeks heating under the mask. Not even it can hide the dark circles under his eyes.

“I’m guessing it’s the bed,” says Wilson, glancing over at the mattress. “Too soft?”

“Too warm and too exposed,” James answers.

Wilson nods, looking thoughtful. “So it’s the temperature you miss? And the way the tube felt—kind of safe? Like a barrier between you and the rest of the world?”

“Yes,” says James slowly.

“I feel that,” says Wilson, and he seems sincere. “I slept in the bathtub for months after I came back to civilian life. Is that what you’ve been doing, too?”

James nods. “The shower stall is the closest I can get to simulating the tube. I cool it down with cold water beforehand.”

“You don’t get wet when you lie down?” asks Wilson, surprised.

"I sleep standing.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay, that makes sense with the tube and all.” His brow furrows. “How about this. I’ll ask Stark to program JARVIS to lower the temperature once the lights dim. Would that help?”

James shrugs.

“Let’s try that for a few days. You can let me know how it works when I visit next.”

“All right.”

“Anything else you need?”

James thinks of the thick, full beard tucked behind the mask. “I’d…” He hesitates for a moment, then pushes forward. “I’d like to be able to shave.”

Wilson blinks. “Have you been growing facial hair this whole time?”

James nods.

“And you normally keep it…” Wilson gestures to his own chin, sending James a questioning look.

“Clean-shaven,” says James.

“Shit, sorry.” Wilson lets out a long breath. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of that. I guess it’s because we only saw the mask. All that hair coming in must’ve been annoying. We’ll get a razor to you right away.”

“Thank you,” says James with relief. It’ll be nice to be able to truly finish his grooming routine, even if he’ll have to shave in the shower corner instead of using the mirror in order to keep his face hidden.

“You’re welcome. Anything else?”

James clears his throat and meets Wilson’s gaze. “I wanted to apologize to you. About your wings.”

Wilson’s face lights with a slow, surprised smile. “Wow. Uh. Thank you.” He huffs a laugh. “The top brass wasn’t too pleased, and at the time I was mad as hell, but it gave me an excuse to get a better set from Stark. I really should be thanking you, in a way.”

“You’re welcome?” says James tentatively.

Wilson grins at him. “It was good chatting with you, Soldier. I’ll see what I can do.”

A new razor arrives with James’ dinner that night. James only nicks himself the first time he tries to shave, and it heals in under a minute.

When the lights dim, the cell gets cold. Not as cold as the cryotube, but enough that a wave of calm washes over James and he’s able to settle down for the night. It helps that he can now sit down and lean against the wall of the shower stall without worrying about getting wet. It’s a more comfortable position than standing, even if it’s unfamiliar.

Romanoff visits the next day and runs him through the usual questions about HYDRA and his old missions. There was nothing on the Winter Soldier in her data dump, but fortunately, James has been able to fill in the gaps. It’s nice to know his piecemeal memory is good for something, even if he hates reliving his experiences. He’s been trying to avoid dating himself too badly, but it’s hard to hide the fact that he’s been around for a while when some of his old handlers died in the 1970’s.

“So,” says Romanoff, folding her hands together, “Here’s what we know so far. You’ve been pulled in and out of cryo for several decades, and you’ve been sent on over a dozen missions—mostly assassinations—for the last fifty years.” Romanoff raises an eyebrow at him. “It checks out, really. You’ve been a ghost story for about that long.”

James’ heart pounds. He still hasn’t figured out if she knows who he really is. She hasn’t given any indication one way or another, but then again, she’s a trained spy and her expressions are purposefully unreadable. He’s a little afraid to force her hand. Instead, he steels himself and says, “I think I shot you. Before we fought on the highway. There was...a cliff?”

Romanoff smirks and lifts up the edge of her shirt. There’s a small but messy pink scar on her abdomen. “Odessa. 2009. Right through me to the engineer I was guarding. He didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry,” says James, and he puts every ounce of meaning behind it. There are not many kind things he can do for Romanoff, but he can at least give her this, just like he gave it to Wilson.

“I’m alive,” says Romanoff with a graceful shrug. “If you’d really wanted to kill me, you would have. The Winter Soldier never missed. I knew that much.”

James doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays quiet.

Romanoff gives him a long, considering look. “I know what it means to have red in your ledger, Soldier. How much it drives you to want to do good even if you feel like you can’t _be_ good. It’s never going to feel like you’re doing enough, but it doesn’t mean you’re not changing for the better.”

James ponders those words for the rest of the day. He dreams that night of a wrecked car hanging off the edge of a cliff, a spot of bright red hair visible through the scope of his rifle. This time, he doesn’t shoot. Instead, he steps away from the gun and turns around. Captain America is standing there smiling at him, holding out the shield. _Go on_ , says Captain America, and James hesitantly slides his arm through the straps. The shield weighs him down and pulls him off the edge of the roof, and Captain America screams, _Bucky! Hold on_ _—_

James is falling, falling, falling—

His knees hit smooth, hard tile. James opens his eyes with a gasp. His entire body is drenched in sweat, and he’s shaking from head to toe.

“JARVIS,” says James, stripping quickly. “Turn on shower. Minimum temperature.”  

The lights come on shortly after he finishes rinsing off. James squints against the sudden brightness and hurriedly runs through the rest of his routine, eating the breakfast that got delivered while the water was running. The panel near the sink makes a soft _ping_ as he disposes of his waste, and he lets out a startled breath as he reads the message on the screen.

_Captain America will visit you in half an hour._

James’ heart pounds. That’s much earlier than the usual scheduled time. Perhaps Romanoff finally told Rogers her suspicions, and Rogers just had to see for himself. James can imagine it clearly in his mind: Rogers’ look of shock, the way his jaw tightened as he threw his shoulders back and grabbed the shield, stalking down the hall and intent on finding out the truth—

James sits on the bed with his hands on his knees, willing himself not to throw up as Rogers enters. Rogers is wearing his full uniform, his shield holstered on his back, but he doesn’t look expectant or angry; instead, he gives James a rueful smile. His tone is apologetic as he says, “Sorry, Soldier. I know I’m early. I’m headed out to some meetings, and I wanted to stop by and say hello before I left. I’ll come by at the usual time tomorrow and spend some time with you.”

James breathes out a long sigh of relief. He hastily swallows the bile in his throat and says, “Hello. Thank you.”

“Has the, um, the temperature been helping?” Rogers finally asks, shifting a little. “The cold? At night?”

James nods. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Good.” Rogers clears his throat. “Um. We’ve set you up to do video calls with a psychotherapist two mornings a week. It seems like you’ve been having trouble sleeping for a while, and a professional can help you with that. We’ve vetted her thoroughly. There’s a minimal chance that she’s HYDRA. First session is tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” says James.

“You’re welcome.” Rogers’ eyes stray toward _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ lying dog-eared on the bed, and a strange, fleeting expression flits across his face. It looks like yearning, and it hits James like a punch to the gut.

The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them. “What’s wrong?”

Rogers shakes his head and gives James a Captain America smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine. Should I bring a new book tomorrow? You look like you’re almost done with this one.”

“Yes, please,” says James.

Rogers turns to leave, and James says, “Wait.”

Rogers pauses and wheels back around. “Soldier?”

James licks his lips under the mask. He’s already done this Romanoff and Wilson, so he doesn’t know why he’s finding it so hard now. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. For—for hurting you. On the helicarrier, and on the bridge. I almost killed you. And I—I almost killed millions of people. People that you saved by stopping me. I’m sorry.”

Rogers’ expression softens. “Thank you, Soldier. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

Rogers stares at James for another moment, and then he turns and disappears through the door.

James hastily retreats to the shower stall again and pulls off his mask, taking slow sips from a water bottle until his mind and body finally settle. The rest of the day passes slowly as he finishes his book and runs through his usual exercise and self-care routines, including writing down the memories of Rogers that are crowding his mind. When he goes to sleep that night, he dreams of little Steve Rogers, looking up at him from a dusty Brooklyn doorstep. _I’m with you to the end of the line, pal,_ he tells Steve, grasping one skinny shoulder with his flesh hand, and Steve smiles gratefully and leads him inside the apartment, where James proceeds to hold Steve close as he shakes with grief.

James wakes with tears trickling down his face. They slip under the mask and drip salt onto his tongue as his heart aches for the echoes of a love lost long ago.


	11. Chapter 11

James’ eyes are puffy and bloodshot when the psychotherapist calls the next morning. He’s bone-tired and can barely even muster excitement when a floating screen appears on the far wall in place of the door. A middle-aged woman with dark, curly hair steps into the frame, adjusting her navy cardigan as she sits down with a friendly smile. 

“Good morning. My name is Dr. Ruth Rosenberg.”

“Good morning,” says James.

“What would you like me to call you?” Rosenberg prompts after a minute of silence passes. 

James bites his lip behind the mask. It’s been a while since he’s heard anyone address him as anything other than Soldier. He misses being James, and he even misses being Vader. But he knows and trusts her less than he does the Avengers, so he reluctantly answers, “You can call me Soldier.”

“All right,” says Rosenberg. “If you ever decide you want to be called something else, please let me know.”

James nods.

Dr. Rosenberg tells James that everything he says to her is confidential, but that she’s duty-bound to report to the Avengers if he makes threats of harm to himself and to others. 

James tells her that’s a good idea and that he doesn’t want to hurt anyone. “I never wanted to hurt anyone,” he admits quietly,. “I just — I wasn’t allowed to want for a long time.”

“Can you tell me more about that?” asks Rosenberg, after an expectant silence passes between them. 

James takes a deep breath and lets it out, the air humidifying his skin under the mask, and says, “I — I used to work for HYDRA. Or, I did. Until the helicarriers fell. They sent me on missions, and I — I killed a lot of people. But — it wasn’t — I didn’t do it by choice.”

Conversation stutters forward over the course of an hour. James quickly drops the topic of his HYDRA captivity and tells Rosenberg he has trouble sleeping because of his nightmares. She asks what he’s been doing to cope, and then she makes some suggestions which James writes down in his journal. They discuss his self-care routine, and Rosenberg says she’s impressed with how he’s been able to complete most of the items every day. James feels a little swell of pride at that. They end the meeting by planning another call in three days, where James can give her a status update.  

Rogers arrives that afternoon in a dusty, dirty uniform with a bruise on his jaw and a cut above his eyebrow. 

“Soldier,” he greets stiffly, favoring his left side. He holds out  _ The Restaurant at the End of the Universe _ by Douglas Adams. “Here you go. Next one in the series.”

James raises his eyebrows, tamping down the sudden urge to touch Rogers and check the rest of him for injuries. “Nice shiner,” he says as he takes the book and sets it aside on top of a pillow. “What happened to you? I thought you said you were going to meetings. Did you get into a fistfight on the boardroom table?”

“I did go to some meetings,” says Rogers, wincing as he adjusts his shield on his back. His balance wavers. “They just happened to be with some black market arms dealers who were trying raid a HYDRA safehouse in Newark. Thank you for that intel, by the way. We would never have found the safehouse on our own.”

"You’re welcome,” says James, and then he rises from the bed and points to the mattress, surprising himself with his own boldness as he orders, “Sit. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Rogers frowns, listing to the right as he shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“You are clearly not fine.” 

Rogers huffs. “I’ll get your bed dirty.”

“Not sleeping in it anyway,” James shoots back, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “Sit. Now.” 

Rogers grumbles but plops himself down onto the bed. “There. Happy?” 

“I’ll never get out of here if you die on my watch, so yes, I’m relieved.”

“I already got cleared by medical,” Rogers mutters, and then his eyes narrow to slits. “Wait. What? Are you planning to try to escape?”

James shakes his head. “No. I’m not even going to try. But I’d like to think there’s a time in the future when I can be a free man again.”

Rogers’ mouth drops into a guilty frown. “I know you had a life before this. I’m sorry we took it away from you.”

James shrugs. “It’s not bad here. Much better than being with HYDRA. At least this way I can’t hurt anyone by accident.”

Rogers’ frown deepens. “Were you worried about that?”

“There was always a risk, I think, even if I wasn’t aware of it. One wrong move while I was in the middle of a flashback, and — ” He swallows hard, shaking his head. He’d hurt more than a few HYDRA technicians who’d approached him after the Chair when he was trying to sort through the jagged shards of his memories. The technicians might have deserved it, but he’s lucky he never lashed out at innocent passersby as a free man. 

“You know,” says Rogers, his gaze contemplative, “After I got the serum, I didn’t always know how strong I was. More than a few people — and storefronts — got damaged as I was figuring it out.” A rueful smile crosses his face. “Sometimes, even now, I still forget I’m not just a little guy from Brooklyn. There isn’t really anyone around left to remind me, either, besides Peggy on her good days.”

“Carter?” says James cautiously.

Rogers nods, grief suffusing his face as he turns it away. 

_She’s not the only one_ _who remembers you like that_ , James thinks, but his hands start to shake when he thinks of pushing the words out of his mouth. He pushes away the thought and simply says, “I’m sorry.” It’s partially an apology for not revealing his identity as James Buchanan Barnes, and partially one for Rogers’ situation. Waking up in a new world, out of time and out of place, is an extremely disorienting sensation with which James is intimately familiar. 

Maybe he can give Rogers that, at least. Even if he can’t give him his friend back, he might be able to give him  _ a _ friend. That’s certainly a greater act of kindness than simply apologizing for not killing him. 

“Rogers, um, Steve.”

Rogers looks up and pastes on a Captain America smile. 

“Yes?”

James steels himself. His heart pounds as he says, “I know what it feels like to feel...displaced. Like the world you knew isn’t the one you remembered. HYDRA didn’t let me keep a lot, but every time they pulled me out of cryo, I knew something was...different. The handlers, the uniforms — sometimes even the language. No matter how many times it happened — no matter how much I expected it — it was confusing as hell. I’m betting it was a hundred times worse for you, because you weren’t expecting to wake up at all.” 

James can’t help the way his voice cracks at the last few words. He snaps his mouth shut and forces himself to meet Rogers’ gaze, whose eyes are wide with surprise. 

“Thank you,” says Rogers, after a long moment in which ten different expressions flit across his face in rapid succession. James can only make out a few: suspicion, fear, disbelief, hope. Rogers’ smile is almost shy as he says, “It’s hard to find someone with shared life experience these days. It’s nice to know I’m not alone.”

James nods. 

Silence stretches between them, but for once, it’s more companionable than awkward. Rogers’ eyes stray toward the self-care list taped above the bed, and he tilts his head, brow furrowing as he reads James’ annotations.

“See something you like?” asks James.

“Yeah,” says Rogers, brow furrowing. “I, um, I should try some of these myself.”

“The URL’s on the bottom there if you want to print a copy from the site,” says James. “It’s the best list I could find. Everything else was full of ads.”

“Sam will approve,” says Rogers with a little laugh that echoes faintly in the dregs of James’ memories. 

“I hope so,” says James, and he smiles tentatively before remembering that the mask is covering his mouth. “Wilson seems like a good guy.”

“He is,” says Rogers with a small smile, and then he yawns, his cheeks promptly reddening with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“You should get some rest,” says James. “Let yourself heal. The serum can’t fix everything.”

“You’re right,” Rogers sighs, standing and failing to hide a grimace when he puts his weight onto his right foot. He limps toward the door, waiting for it to appear, and then turns around  before stepping through it. “Have a good night, Soldier. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

James sighs and presses the heels of his hands to his forehead to stave off the exhaustion that hits him like a tidal wave as soon as the door closes. He drags himself through his evening exercise routine and spends the rest of the night reading, pausing only to eat dinner or reposition his body so that it doesn’t get stiff. When his eyes begin to droop, James sets the book aside, runs through his evening routine, and then sits in the corner of the shower stall, drifting off as soon as the lights dim. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very vague reference to past humiliation and sexual assault towards the beginning of the chapter; nothing is described explicitly.

Time inches forward in hours, which turn into days, which turn into weeks, which turn into months.

James continues to follow his self-care routine religiously. He also talks to Dr. Rosenberg twice a week, opening up slowly about his time as HYDRA’s Winter Soldier. Over time, he relearns definitions of words he already knew, like torture, manipulation, and abuse, and he learns new ones, too: gaslighting, post-traumatic stress disorder, brainwashing, triggers. He picks up techniques to work through panic attacks, flashbacks, and emotional ruts, and although he doesn’t always succeed in getting out of them, he’s still heartened that he’s made the attempt.

After five months, James finally gets used to sleeping on the bed, gradually moving from a supine position in the stall, to a series of restless nights lying on top of the blankets, and then finally to sleeping under some blankets that provide a comforting weight, but aren’t heavy enough to make him feel like he’s being held down. Eventually, his nights become mostly dreamless, aided by physical exhaustion from a more strenuous exercise routine, breathing and mental exercises he learns during his sessions, and the cold that suffuses the cell as soon as it gets dim. Despite that, he still keeps his mask on, not willing to take any chances in accidentally exposing his face

Six months in, James tells Rosenberg, “My name is James.”

“James,” says Rosenberg with a warm smile, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s my real name,” he says, because it feels important, although he can’t bring himself to say that his full name is James Buchanan Barnes, otherwise known as Bucky. He adds, “I don’t want any of the Avengers to know yet.”

Rosenberg nods. “All right, James. We’ll keep it between us.”

She keeps her word. The Avengers who visit him continue to address him as Soldier without any noticeable difficulties or tells. Romanoff doesn’t even flinch. James gradually lets himself believe that his former identity is safe after all.

Rogers, Wilson, and Romanoff continue to visit in rotation, filling their usual roles. Romanoff’s interrogations evolve into strategy meetings for raiding HYDRA bases, where James points out secret tunnels and probable booby traps, surprising even himself with the knowledge. Wilson eventually lobbies for James to get Netflix and other video streaming services, which appear on the screen in James’ cell on Christmas Day with a message from Stark:

> _Congratulations, Robocop! You’ve been a good boy and earned a luxury streaming package from Casa Avengers._
> 
> _XOXO, Santa (not Sansa) Stark_

James recognizes the joke about the name, but he spends far too much time trying to figure out what “xoxo” means. He eventually resorts to asking Romanoff, who smirks and says, “‘Hugs and kisses.”

“X stands for hugs, O stands for kisses?” asks James with a frown.

“Or the other way around.”

James grimaces. “He’s not...It’s just a joke, right? He’s not trying to—imply anything?”

“Your virtue is safe,” says Romanoff, laughter in her voice. “It’s just Stark being Stark. If he were interested, he would be much more forward about it. I know from personal experience.” She waves a hand at James’ alarmed look. “It was a cover, and I was in control of the situation. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” says James slowly.

Romanoff’s look turns serious. “There is no expectation of sexual favors among this team, Soldier, and there never will be. If anyone ever tries to take advantage of you like that, let me know.”

James swallows heavily and nods, the back of his neck prickling with the residues of a nightmarish memory he can’t recall. “Thank you.”

Romanoff nods and gives him a small smile, sitting down next to him on the bed. “Want to test out your new gift? I’ve got a movie in mind that I think you’ll like.”

The movie turns out to be a Russian comedy called _Ivan Vasilievich: Back to the Future_ , in which Ivan the Terrible switches places in time with a hapless building superintendent with the same name and face. It’s genuinely funny and an interesting snapshot of the Soviet Union in the 1970’s. James is pleasantly surprised to find that he can both understand the Russian and not get triggered by hearing it.

The streaming services have the added benefit of facilitating interaction between James and Rogers, who over time becomes “Steve” in James’ mind. Like the Steve Rogers in James’ memories, Steve seems relieved to have a concrete activity to do rather than making small talk or sitting in silence. Steve usually goes along with whatever science-fiction series or movie James has chosen that day, although he’ll occasionally quietly suggest watching something that’s made it onto his “twenty-first century recommendations list.” James doesn’t ever mind fulfilling that request. It’s nice to be able to expand his taste.

One day in January, Steve comes in fresh off a mission, his shoulders slumped as if he’s carrying a heavy weight. “Hi, Soldier,” he says, swiping a hand across his forehead and streaking dirt across his hairline. “Sorry, I’m all—” He gestures toward his dirt-stained suit. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

James blinks, touched by the concern. “You want to get cleaned up?” he asks, giving him a puzzled look. “Come back later?”

“Um, okay,” says Steve. “Yeah. I’ll be quick. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

James raises his eyebrows, watching Steve disappear through the door, and tries not to let his anxiety get the better of him. He settles for reading through one chapter of _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , the film adaptation of which he and Steve watched a week ago.

Steve reappears exactly fifteen minutes later. He’s freshly showered and dressed in casual clothing, although his hastily wiped shield is slung over his back, still bearing some dirt and grit from the mission. James lets it go and moves to the edge of the bed, patting the other edge where Steve usually sits.

“Can we watch, uh, the original _Snow White_?” asks Steve, his cheeks reddening.

James pauses, his heart jumping. This is significant, and he knows why.

Bucky Barnes had taken little Steve Rogers to see that film in theaters in 1938. Bucky hadn’t exactly meant for it to be a date, but Steve had interpreted it as such and kissed him for the first time that evening. James remembers that Bucky’s heart had swollen to twice its size at the brush of their lips against one another’s, and he’d pulled Steve back in when Steve had turned his face away, terror and hope warring on his face.

They’d kissed a few more times after that, punch-drunk with lust and young, illicit love. Then Bucky had gotten drafted, and the affair had ended, both of them terrified that Bucky would get a blue card or something even worse.

“We don’t have to,” says Steve in the present, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. The shade of blue brings out his eyes. “Just—thought it’d be nice. I’ve been thinking of an old friend, and—” Steve sucks in a sharp breath. “Anyway. Forget it, I’m sorry. I’m not very good company today.”

“JARVIS,” says James, “Please play _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs._ ”

Steve looks embarrassed. “You don’t have to do this just for me.”

“It’s not just for you. I want to watch it again.”

Steve blinks. “Again?”

James nods. “Again.”

“All right.”

Steve sits stiffly throughout the film, his arms wrapped around his middle as if his stomach hurts. James barely pays attention to the screen, more concerned with Steve’s obvious emotional distress.

“Are you thinking about your friend?” James asks quietly as the music cuts off and the final end credits silently flash onto the screen. “The one that I remind you of?”

Steve lets out a strained laugh. “How’d you know?”

James’ heart beats fast in his ears. “Just a guess. It’s—it’s an old film.”

“I miss him,” Steve says, staring at the ground. “Been missing him a lot today. We saw this together in the cinema when it first came out. And then—” Steve shakes his head. “Anyway. I’m sorry.”

"Tell me about him," says James. "Please?"

Steve blows out a breath. "Are you sure?"

James nods.

Steve’s voice is quiet, and it carries the slightest hint of a Brooklyn accent as he says, "My friend's name was James Buchanan Barnes, but I called him Bucky. He was...he...he loved science fiction just like you, was always reading every pulp novel he could get his hands on. And he liked to dance, couldn’t resist going to a dance hall practically every night. Charmed all the dames, um, the women too. But he always came back home to me and…” Steve shakes his head. “Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky. He took care of me, more than that, he respected me, when no one else seemed to think I should even exist.”

Steve looks down, his mouth twisting with regret. “He got drafted, went to the front, and then was captured by HYDRA, and—the rest you probably know. I got the serum, stormed the base, rescued him. They offered him a medical discharge, but he refused. Said he'd follow me. Follow the little guy." Steve's laugh is wet. "I didn't think anything of it at the time. Thought it was just the way of things. Steve and Bucky, together forever."

"You loved him.”

Steve’s cheeks redden. “Yeah, of course. He was my best friend.”

“You were in love with him,” says James quietly.

Steve swallows noisily. “I don’t know. Maybe. I—I always thought we’d have more time to figure it out. Swore I’d talk to him about after the war. Make a plan, find a way to make us both happy, and Peggy too. But I never had the chance."

James’ heart pounds like a drum, and he shoves his right hand under his thigh to hide how badly it’s shaking. _You do have the chance_ , he wants to say, just to wipe the terrible pain off Steve’s face, but it’s not strictly true. Bucky Barnes was killed by HYDRA long ago, through torture and conditioning and the Chair. James is no replacement.

“Do you wish Bucky were here?” James asks, keeping his voice low so that it doesn’t crack.

Steve hunches his shoulders and ducks his head. “In some ways, yes. But—he’d be, what, close to a hundred by now, if he were even still alive. It’s hard enough to see Peggy sometimes and realize that we’re so far apart in...time now that we’ll never be able to—to be in each other’s lives the way I imagined. But then again”—Steve swipes a hand across his eyes —“it would mean that Bucky lived a full and happy life like she did instead of dying before he reached thirty.”

Steve swallows noisily. “You know, I’ve never told anyone this before, but Bucky’s death haunts me. It feels like my biggest failure, even more than HYDRA’s infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D.” Steve shakes his head and glances up at James through his wet lashes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m blabbering this to you.”

“I asked,” says James.

“Yeah,” says Steve, his voice hoarse. “Thanks. Not many people do.”

James takes in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly to calm himself. When his flesh hand is steady, he tentatively reaches out and puts it on Steve’s broad shoulder. Steve startles a little, then relaxes with a slow sigh, glancing at James and giving him a pained smile. James keeps his hand there for a few more seconds, then removes it when his fingers start shaking again.

 

Steve’s cheeks are flushed as he rises from the bed a few seconds later. “Thank you, Soldier. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Steve,” says James.

“Good night.” Steve takes a deep breath and straightens his shoulders. James can see him pull on the Captain America persona as he crosses the room. He turns his head and nods at James once, and then he steps out of the cell.

That evening, James has his first nightmare in a long time. Steve is big and dressed in full uniform, his shield held out in front of him defensively as he backs James into a corner. James lashes out with his metal arm, but it falls heavy at his side like it’s being pulled by a magnet. _You’re not my Bucky_ , says Steve, _Bring him back! I don’t want you!_

 _Please_ , says James, curling into a ball, _I’m sorry. I can’t._

 _Try harder,_ says Steve, and suddenly it’s not Steve but the Secretary standing over him, stroking his face in a mockery of tenderness. _You don’t remember, Soldier, do you? Who you were before all this? No matter. We will make you into a new man._

James screams and thrashes against the restraints of the Chair as the metal halos descend upon him. He wrenches free and topples forward head-first toward the floor, his forehead throbbing with pain at the impact.

James opens his eyes with a gasp. Blood trickles slowly from his forehead onto the ground next to the bed. He lurches toward the bathroom, slowly undresses with trembling fingers, and asks JARVIS to run a cold shower. Then he sinks down in the corner of the stall, shaking under the freezing spray.


	13. Chapter 13

“I had a nightmare,” James tells Dr. Rosenberg the next morning without preamble.

Rosenberg nods. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

James lets out a shuddering breath. “I dreamed — I was in the Chair again. And...HYDRA was wiping my mind. Torturing me. But before that, I dreamed of St — of my old friend. He was angry that I’d changed so much. Said he wanted the old me back.” James blows out a long breath. “I cracked my head thrashing around so much. It’s healed now, but — it took me off guard. It’s been a while since I had a nightmare that bad.”

“Were you able to go back to sleep?”

James shakes his head. “I tried, but...it was so vivid.” He looks up and meets Rosenberg’s gaze. “I, um. It’s something I want to work on. My identity.”

“What do you mean?” she asks gently. 

“I’ve been so many people. The mind wipes created a new iteration of the Soldier every time. And there’s the person I was before HYDRA and the person I was, or am, after HYDRA. I don’t know how to reconcile them. I feel like a bunch of mismatched parts jumbled together in the same body.”

Rosenberg asks him for more details, and James doesn’t bother expounding upon the Soldier — they’ve already spent plenty of time talking about that aspect of his identity. Instead, he describes his life as the supposed James Baurns, a construction worker who regularly visited the library and the grocery store and tried to help others. He vaguely skims on his life before HYDRA, explaining that he doesn’t remember everything about it, but that he had a “good friend” and that they haven’t exactly been in contact. (It’s a half-lie, but it’s also a half-truth —as far as James can tell,  Steve doesn’t know who he is.) 

“Who do you want to be, James?” asks Rosenberg, a thoughtful look on her face.

“I don’t know,” James admits. “I thought I had it all figured out after I left HYDRA, while I was out living in the world. I thought I could just — move forward and ignore the past. But — being here, it’s made me think a lot more about the person I was, um — before I was even the Soldier. And it’s made me wonder if I could...if I need to, or if I want to be that person again. I — I don’t even know if that’s possible now. I’ve been through so much then.”

Rosenberg sets her notepad aside and leans forward. “I think you’ve just answered your own question.”

“I don’t understand,” says James. 

Rosenberg says firmly, “You’re right. You can’t ever be the person you used to be. That’s an impossible goal — not just for you, but for anyone.”

“But what if...I’m expected to be that person from the past? What if it makes someone happy to have that person back?”

Rosenberg gives him a small, sad smile. “Is that going to make you happy? Being who you used to be? Or pretending to be who you used to be?”

“I don’t think so,” James admits. “I don’t even know how to go back to being that person.”

“Then don’t,” says Rosenberg, and her smile transforms into something warm and compassionate at James’ startled look. “You already did a lot of hard work to establish who you are now, James, and you did most of it on your own — quite effectively, I might add, with the self-care and your reintegration into society.

“I think the real question is how to manage your expectations going forward. You are allowed to pick and choose parts of your past experiences that add to the person you want to be, and you are allowed to look at other parts and say, ‘I don’t want to be that person anymore,’ in the case of the Soldier, or ‘I can’t be that person anymore,’ in the case of who you were before the Soldier. It’s all right. You’re not bound to your past identities just because you share the same body.”

“But I still did those things,” says James quietly. “I was still the Soldier. I still killed people.”

“I know, James. And it’s clear to me that you’re holding yourself accountable for all of your past behaviors, whether you carried out those actions by choice or whether you were coerced. We can discuss that later. My point is, you don’t have to let those experiences — or the ones before that — define you.” 

“All right,” says James, relief trickling through his veins. “Thank you.”

Rosenberg nods. “Anything else I can help with today?”

“No, that’s — that’s very helpful. Thank you, Dr. Rosenberg.”

"You’re welcome, James. I’ll see you next time.” 

James ponders her words as he goes through the rest of his day. By the time the afternoon rolls around, he’s come to a decision.

Steve walks through the door with a sheepish smile, wearing casual clothes yet again with his shield on his back. He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink. “I’m sorry about yesterday, Soldier. I shouldn’t have — ”

“Don’t,” says James, and Steve halts abruptly, his eyes wide. James softens his tone. “Don’t apologize. I didn’t mind.”

Steve ducks his head. “Thank you.”

James takes a long, deep breath to steady his nerves, and then says, “I wanted to talk to you about Bucky. "

Steve looks up warily. “What about him?”

James almost falters at that moment, but he forges ahead. “I need to show you something first.”

“...okay,” says Steve slowly. 

“Don’t move.” 

James rises from the bed and approaches Steve until there’s only a couple inches of space between them. Steve tenses and lifts his jaw, straightening his shoulders and curling his hands into fists defensively. 

“Give me your hand,” says James.

Steve frowns at him. “This isn’t an attempt to kill me, right?”

“Of course not,” says James, offended. “Give me your hand, please.”

Steve searches his face for a long minute, then lifts his hand.  

James curls his shaking fingers around Steve’s wrist and tugs it upward until Steve’s fingers rest on the left clasp of the mask. “Go ahead,” he says, his voice wavering. “Take it off. It’s not going to kill me.”

Steve’s brow furrows. His fingers tangle in James’ hair as he fumbles with the clasp, first one side, then the other. James watches Steve’s face morph from confusion, to suspicion, to disbelief, to a blank, all-consuming shock. 

The mask falls to the floor with a loud clatter, and Steve gasps,  _ “Bucky?” _

“No,” says James softly, barely able to hear his own voice past the thundering of his heart. “Not Bucky. James. James Barnes.”

Steve’s face crumples, and it hits James like a punch to the gut. “I don’t understand,” says Steve, his voice hoarse. He drinks in James’ face, his eyes lingering on James’ clean-shaven jaw, his chapped lips, the slightly reddened ridges left by the mask. “It’s you.” 

James gingerly places a hand on Steve’s elbow and guides him toward the bed. “Let’s sit down. It’s a long story.”

Steve sits down hard, keeping his eyes on James’ face like he’s scared James will disappear right in front of him. 

James takes a moment to breathe deeply, then says, “There are...there are three fairly distinct parts of my life. Before HYDRA, during HYDRA, and after HYDRA. Before, I was Bucky Barnes. Your best friend, your sometimes lover.” Steve’s cheeks flush red, and James says quietly, “He loved you, you know. It was one of the first things I remembered.”

Steve’s eyes glisten with tears. “Okay,” he says, swallowing hard. “Go on.”

“During HYDRA — well, you know about that, my time as the Winter Soldier. But I...I didn’t go from being Bucky Barnes to being the Soldier right away. The whole process started in Azzano, when Zola experimented on me. He injected me with some version of the super-soldier serum similar to yours, which helped me survive the fall from the train. Soviet soldiers allied with HYDRA found me in the snow, and after a while they handed me back over to Zola and HYDRA.” Steve makes a choked noise, and James says quickly, “It’s okay, Steve. There was no way you could have known.”

“If I’d just gone back and looked...I’d planned to, I wanted to go back right away, but — ”

“Steve, stop,” says James with a sharp shake of his head. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“But — ” Steve looks agonized. “HYDRA. HYDRA had you the whole time? All seventy years, ever since the —the train? ”

“Not the whole time,” says James, with a small, wistful smile. “I broke free from them after the helicarriers fell. Got lucky and met some good people who helped me along the way, pointed me to the right resources. Eventually I became James Baurns, with a ‘u’ in my name.”

Steve’s laugh sounds like more of a sob. “Yeah, B — James. Yeah, you did.” A line appears in the middle of his forehead. “Wait. Did you misspell that on purpose? To try to throw people off your trail?”

James sighs. “No, I actually wanted it to say Barnes. With an E. But I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Oh,” says Steve, clearly lost. 

James lets it go and continues, “It wasn’t the easiest process, going from the Soldier to — who I am now. But the, um, the trigger was you.”

"Me?” says Steve with wide eyes. Hope flares within them, so blinding that James has to look away. 

“Yeah. You. I...I went against orders, at the end. I saved you, pulled you out of the Potomac instead of killing you or — or letting you die.”

Realization dawns on Steve’s face. “I wondered,” he says. “I knew I couldn’t have come out of the water on my own.”

“It was me. I did it even though I didn’t understand why. I wasn’t supposed to be able to retain attachments to anyone who wasn’t my commanding officer, much less an assigned target. So I went to the Captain America exhibit in the Smithsonian, and then I found out about James Buchanan Barnes, aka Bucky, the man who shared my face.” Steve makes a small, hurt noise, and James smiles sadly at him. “I can’t be him, Steve. I’m sorry. I’ve been through too much now. It’d be impossible. I thought about trying to pretend, but—”

“No,” says Steve, shaking his head. “That would be worse.”

“It would,” says James, the relief he’d felt after speaking to Rosenberg now washing over him in full force. 

Steve’s silent for a long time. James attempts to stay calm by running through several breathing exercises, but his anxiety still ratchets up with each passing minute. Eventually, he can’t take it anymore. “Steve?” he says.

Steve lets out a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking up with red, puffy eyes. “I — I just can’t believe you’re here.” 

“Neither can I, most days,” James admits.

“Buck — James. “Steve shakes his head, blinking hard. “I’m going to have to get used to that. Sorry.”

“Plenty of time now,” says James, trying for a grin. “Got the whole twenty-first century ahead of us.”

Steve’s laugh is strangled. “You’re right.”  He makes an abortive movement with his hand, like he wants to touch James but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. 

James’ heart aches in sympathy. “Come here,” he says, and he takes Steve’s wrist and pulls him in close, carefully wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist and resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve’s breath hitches. His hands shake as he rests them on the small of James’ back. James shivers and presses into the touch, and Steve whimpers, moving his arms upward until he’s almost strangling James with his biceps. “Is this okay?” Steve asks, his breath tickling James’ ear. 

“Yeah,” says James, slowly relaxing into the hold as he consciously tamps down his defensive reflexes. He breathes in deep against Steve’s skin. “Yeah, this is nice.”

They stay like that for what seems like an eternity, listening to each other’s heartbeats and feeling each other’s bodies against their own. Eventually, James starts to feel trapped, and he pulls back to Steve’s obvious reluctance.

“I’m not going anywhere,” says James, squeezing Steve’s hand. “I can’t.”

Steve clears his throat and sucks in a deep breath. “You’ll be a free man soon.”

James frowns. “Because I used to be Bucky?”

“No, it’s — ” Steve runs a hand through his hair. “We’ve actually been talking about it for a while as a team. We’ve just been waiting for things to settle with, uh, paperwork before bringing it up with you.”

“Paperwork,” James repeats, raising his eyebrows. 

“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that. But essentially, we’ve been working on your legal status. It’s actually helpful to know that you used to be Bucky. Makes the case for releasing you stronger.”

“Okay,” says James. “That’s, that’s good, I think.”

Steve hesitates. “That is what you want, right? To be free?”

James huffs. “Of course. There are...there are so many things I’ve done that I can never make up for, but I want to have the chance to try. But — I want it to happen for the right reasons. I don’t want you, or anyone else, to treat me differently just because I used to be your best friend.”

Steve nods. “I understand. You know, I — ” He clears his throat, cheeks flushing red. “When I only knew you as the Soldier, you reminded me of Bucky in a lot of ways, but — I still enjoyed your company even without that. You were kind to me even when you didn’t have to be. So — thank you, James.”

“You’re welcome,” says James, his own cheeks heating up. “Performing acts of kindness is an important part of self-care. There isn’t much kindness I can offer to you or any of the others from a prison cell, but — I’ve been trying my best.”

Steve’s laugh is wet. “Well, pal, I’d say you’ve succeeded a hundred times over.” He swipes at his eyes and meets James’ gaze with a smile that’s almost shy. “Can you tell me about your life after HYDRA? I know bits and pieces from when we first investigated the base, but — I want to hear it from you.”

“It’s not that interesting,” says James, but when Steve’s smile dims, he quickly relents. “All right, Steve. I will.” He grabs a water bottle nearby, takes a few sips, and begins. 


	14. Chapter 14

James becomes a free man on February 2, 2015, approximately seven months after his initial arrival at Avengers Tower.

“Got a floor all made up for you, Robocop, just one below Captain Gramps,” says Stark, leading him out of the cell. He’s not wearing his Iron Man armor, but there’s a red metal wristband peeking out from underneath his long-sleeved T-shirt. James’ eyes linger on it as he idly speculates on how it connects to the rest of the suit.

Stark eyes him curiously. “You know,” he says, “I could always use another set of eyes in the lab. Mostly to make sure I don’t set things on fire. The bots and JARVIS do a pretty good job, but having an actual human being there would probably be an upgrade.”

James squints. “Are you offering me a position as your...assistant?”

Stark winces a little. “Assistant, no. I’ve had enough former assassins in that role.” When James raises an eyebrow, Stark waves a hand and says, “Romanoff,” as if that explains everything. Then his face brightens. “How about intern? I’ve always wanted an intern.”

James frowns. “I’m not sure—”

“Don’t answer now,” says Stark quickly, taking James down another long, sloping hallway that ends in the elevator doors.. “Pepper will kill me if I don’t go through all the official channels. Though technically you were already working for SI, huh? Talk about a major promotion. We’ll have to get all that paperwork corrected.”

“Thank you for letting me live here,” says James quickly before Stark can go off on another tangent.

Stark shrugs as the elevator doors open. “ _Mi casa es su casa_. I don’t say that to just everybody, but—well, you’ve technically been living here for months, so - anyway. Hey. I was thinking, your arm—I might be able to make some improvements to it, if you’re up for it?”

“What kind of improvements?”

“Oh, you know, increased dexterity, a lighter strength-to-weight ratio—JARVIS, take us to floor 65, please.”

“Right away, sir,” says a robotic voice with an English accent.

James jumps, looking around. “What—who was that?”

“Uh, that’s JARVIS,” says Tony. “My AI? He’s been flushing your toilet for you?”

“He talks,” says James, taking deep, slow breaths to calm his heart rate. “He never talked in the cell.”

Tony’s eyes light with realization. “Oh, yeah. We didn’t want to—we thought he might be too much when you first got here. Anyway, now you know. JARVIS, meet James Barnes. James Barnes, meet JARVIS.”

“Pleasure,” says JARVIS. “What would you like me to call you?”

“James is fine,” says James, hesitantly aiming his gaze at the ceiling. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome, James.”

“Stark,” says James, “Does JARVIS...has he been monitoring...everything?”

Stark peers at James suspiciously. “Um, yes? I mean, he monitored your vitals and your water usage in the cell. And he fed us video and audio streams of any activity in the cell, with the exception of the little hidey-hole with the shower and toilet that you discovered on your first day.”

“Why did you let me keep that?” asks James curiously. “It would have been easy to exploit.”

“Well,” says Stark, looking mildly offended, “First of all, JARVIS would have informed us of any structural damage to the cell. Secondly, not all of us wanted to get a view of your super-soldier dick while you did nature’s business.”  When James doesn’t respond to that, Stark huffs and continues, “We noticed you never took your mask off in the cell, but you were still eating and drinking. We figured you might have some kind of embarrassing facial injury or a weird way of ingesting things you didn’t want us noticing. Since you weren’t causing the cell or yourself any damage, we didn’t push it.”

“Really,” says James, doubt trickling into his tone. “Not one person thought that it was a bad idea?”

Stark sighs. “Okay. I admit, I wanted to know what the hell was going on with the mask. And Romanoff argued right away that we should get coverage there, but Sassy Bird and Captain Spangles were insistent that we not invade your privacy any more than we already had.”

James lets out a long exhale, gratitude flooding his veins. He’d taken every precaution he could not to reveal his face until he was ready, but it’d been built on a fool’s hope that had only worked because Wilson and Steve had insisted on giving him a modicum of respect.

“Floor 65,” JARVIS announces with a familiar _ding_ , and the elevator doors open onto a carpeted hallway. The carpet squishes under James’ old boots as he follows Stark into an enormously spacious living room. Sunlight is streaming in through floor-to-ceiling bay windows, illuminating tasteful-looking furniture and a giant TV built into the wall. “I’ve set you up with the usual streaming options,” says Stark.

“Did you say I have the whole _floor_?” James asks incredulously.

Stark grins. “I did, Robocop. You’re welcome to redecorate it however you like. I’ll get you linked up with the catalogs tomorrow. And,” says Stark, his smile turning into a frown, “if, like Captain Spangles, you want to move out and get a place of your own at some point, then, you know, you’re free to do that. I mean, he doesn’t have a place of his own right now, since you shot through the window of his DC apartment”—James winces, and Stark waves a dismissive hand. —“Whatever, that was a S.H.I.E.L.D. apartment anyway, far inferior to the one here and probably bugged six ways to Sunday.”

“You’re right, it was,” says Romanoff, sticking her head into the living room. There’s a manila envelope tucked under her arm. Wilson and Steve hover behind her. “Mind if we join you?”

Stark gestures grandly toward the couch. “By all means. I’m going back to the workshop. Enjoy your new life, Robocop.” Stark blinks. “Wait. One more thing. Privacy! So, JARVIS won’t be able monitor the inside of your suite when you’re residing in it, unless, of course, there’s a life-threatening emergency or a suspected security breach. Okay, I think I covered everything. See you later.” He hustles out of the room before James can thank him again, his sudden absence leaving a palpable silence.

“James,” says Steve, stepping forward, all Captain America in his stance. “Welcome to your new home.”

“Thanks,” says James, shifting his bag on his shoulder. The word comes out stiff and slow, mirroring the uncomfortable formality of Steve’s tone.

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. “Um.”

James frowns and blinks. “Yes?”

“Congratulations,” says Steve, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops and shifting his weight. “You deserve this.”

James isn’t sure he completely agrees with that sentiment. It must show on his face, because Steve lifts his jaw stubbornly and says, “You do. You’re a good man.”

James’ cheeks flush. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

Wilson coughs quietly. “Why don’t we all sit down? James, we have something for you.”

James perches gingerly on the beige couch set in the center of the room. Wilson sits down next to him and Romanoff sits on the other end, while Steve takes position in the adjacent armchair. Romanoff sets the envelope on the coffee table in front of the couch. “That’s for you.”

James picks it up warily.

“It’s not a trap,” says Romanoff. “Go ahead, open it.”

James undoes the gold brads keeping the envelope closed and slowly pulls out the contents. There’s a legitimate driver’s license with the correct spelling of his name (JAMES B BARNES) and his birth date (March 10, 1917) along with his new address at Avengers Tower. A passport with the same information that expires 10 years from the day and a special insert marking him exempt from security screening procedures due to medical reasons. A social security card with an unfamiliar number. A starchy printed letter from the U.S. Army thanking him for his service and apologizing for the delay in giving him his backpay. A large paper packet containing information on his new checking account—James’ eyes almost pop out of his head at the amount of money already deposited inside. A shiny black credit card linked to that account, enfolded inside a glossy brochure that describes a maximum limit so huge that James can hardly comprehend it. A crisp stack of new $20 bills, held together by a paper band and totaling up to $500 in cash.

“There’s one more thing,” says Steve, after James carefully lays out everything on the table and straightens the edges of the paper.

James frowns and tips the envelope on its side. Something falls onto the table with a _clink_.

It’s a rusted, worn dogtag—just one. James recognizes it instantly.

“I kept it all these years,” says Steve, giving James a small, tentative smile. “Bucky and I exchanged one each the night before we went on the mission in the Alps.” Steve doesn’t need to specify anything else; James knows it’s the one where he fell off the train. Steve clears his throat and says, “It’s yours, if you want it. Or if you don’t—you can give it back to me. I’ll keep it somewhere safe.”

James gazes at the sole marker of his old identity, shining in a ray of winter sunlight coming in from the window. The metal is hot as James brushes his finger over it and folds it into his palm.

“I’ll keep it,” he says, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’ll never be him anymore. But I _was_ him once. And that’s okay. I don’t want to forget that.” He gives Steve a small smile. “Thank you.”

Steve can't hide the relief that passes across his face. “You’re welcome.”

James slips the dogtag into his pocket and picks up the passport, weighing it in his palm. “How did you get all these documents?”

Romanoff gives him a cool smile. “Oh, you know, just expedited a few papers through the tangle of bureaucracy.” She meets his gaze, her smile transforming into something more serious and businesslike. “In reality, no one wanted to take responsibility for the actions of the Winter Soldier, since you ended up under both U.S. and Soviet custody. It would have caused a political maelstrom, and the U.S. and Russian governments knew it, so they decided to sweep it under the rug and let the Winter Soldier remain a ghost story. After that, it was easy enough to get you re-established as James Barnes, former U.S. Soldier who went seemingly MIA for several years due to a classified research project, especially with Rogers here serving as a precedent. Thank you for that, Steve.”

“You’re welcome,” says Steve dryly.

“Did Stark give you the grand tour yet?” asks Wilson.

James shakes his head.

“Come on, man. Let’s go check out the rest of this place.”

A king-size bed stacked with pillows is the centerpiece of the master bedroom. James takes a moment to tape his original self-care list on the wall above the headboard, then sets his backpack down on the plush carpet and follows Wilson into the attached bathroom. It features a clawfoot bathtub, a bubble bath kit that James will be sure to try out later, and a complicated set of shower fixtures which manually control temperature, water pressure, and water flow. A shower curtain affixed to a rod set in the wall rounds out the whole display. On the other side of the hallway, the guest bedroom and bathroom are separate rooms that contain similar design choices as the master.

The kitchen consists of a stainless steel sink, an oven and four gas stove tops underneath a massive hood, a microwave built into the wall, and a dishwasher. The countertops are white and gray marble, and the wooden cabinets above them are fully stocked with dishes, utensils, and other cooking ware. The pantry contains some basic dry goods and spices. The giant refrigerator and freezer, whose doors are dotted with take-out menus affixed by colorful magnets, contain some pre-packaged sandwiches, salads, and microwavable meals, along with a huge covered dish labeled “Mrs. Wilson’s casserole - the best in the world!”

“Thought we’d get you started with the food until you’re more settled into a routine,” says Wilson. “That’s my mom’s home-made casserole, delivered by yours truly all the way from Harlem.”

“Thank you,” says James, genuinely moved.

Wilson grins. “No problem, man. What’s a housewarming without some homemade food?”

“I also got you something,” says Romanoff, guiding them back to the living room. Wilson and Steve sit down on the couch as Romanoff leads James through the screen doors onto the balcony, which contains a small collection of potted succulents soaking up the sunlight.

“It can be nice to foster life after so many years of destroying it,” says Romanoff. “These are good to start with since they don’t require that much maintenance.”

James gently touches the spiky leaves, his vision blurring with sudden tears. “Thank you.”

Romanoff gives him a small smile back, tilting her head. “You’re welcome.” She glances back at Wilson and Steve, and then she lowers her voice. “I’m glad it was you who did it, in the end. You deserved it, even if I didn’t see that at first.”

“What are you talking about?”

Romanoff gestures toward her face. “I’m glad it was you who took off the mask. I knew you resembled Bucky Barnes—I saw your face on your fake ID when we raided the base. My suspicions only increased when you tried so hard to keep the mask on.”

James swallows, his throat tight. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Romanoff sighs. “At first I was worried how Rogers would react. He had a hard enough time finding out about HYDRA’s infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D.  And then, as we got to know you better, I became more and more convinced that it was fairest to give you that choice. I’m glad that Rogers and Wilson talked me into letting you have that little private corner of the cell.” Something flickers over her face. “It took me years to regain any sense of autonomy, even after Barton brought me in, and it took me even longer to figure out who I wanted to be. I still don’t know, most days. I didn’t want to take what parts of yourself you had reclaimed away from you.”

James’ breath comes out long and slow. “Thank you.”

Romanoff nods at him. “I had Barton, and Fury, and S.H.I.E.L.D., even though the last turned out to be dirty. You have me, and Rogers, and Wilson, and the rest of the Avengers team—and the friends you made while you were on your own. You’re not alone, James. Never forget that.”

“I won’t.”

James spends the rest of the afternoon eating pizza from a local joint and watching _Battlestar Galactica_ with Steve, Wilson, and Romanoff. In the evening, he carefully files his documents away, unpacks his backpack, and hangs his clothes in the closet. Then he takes a long hot bath for the first time in probably seventy years, delighting in the mountain of foam that fills the tub to the brim. He’d always wanted to try out a bath per the suggestion on his self-care list, and he’s glad he finally has the chance.

The bed is a little too soft, so James pulls the covers and pillows down onto the carpet, which provides some more firmness against his back. He closes his eyes and sighs in contentment, smiling as sleep rolls over him.


	15. Epilogue

“This is the place?” asks Steve, looking at the cheerful brick sign of the Northeast Neighborhood Library. He’s dressed in casual clothing: a light jacket, fitted jeans, and a white T-shirt that looks like it’s straining to contain his pecs. James’ eyes linger on Steve’s chest before he moves his gaze up to Steve’s face, where a baseball cap and sunglasses barely disguise the fact that Steve is Captain America.

Steve glances over. “James?”

James clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go inside.” He pushes the doors open and steadily makes his way toward the information desk, his heart jumping as he sees Margie sitting at her usual spot and frowning at her computer. James halts in front of the desk, Steve hovering behind him as he takes a deep breath and says, “Hello.”

Margie looks up and smiles brightly. “Welcome to the library! How can I help you two...today...?” Her voice trails off as she takes a closer look at James’ face. “You look familiar, sir. Have you been here before?”

James reaches into his left pocket with his glove-covered hand, takes his old library card out, and places it on the desk. “It’s me. James.”

Margie’s eyes go wide as she takes the card, her fingers shaking a little as she reads the name. “James,” she gasps. She laughs under her breath. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the mask.”

“Thank you for letting me keep it on all those times.”

“Oh,” says Margie, shaking her head, “It wasn’t doing any harm and it wasn’t my business regardless. Neither was you disappearing, but I have to admit, I’ve been worried anyway. You’ve been gone for, my goodness, ten months now?”

“Sorry about that,” says James with a sheepish smile. “I had to go away for awhile and figure some things out. Steve”—Steve gives an awkward wave over James’ shoulder—“and his friends have been helping me. I’ve got an apartment in New York now, in the same building they’re in.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Margie gushes with a smile. “I’m so happy for you.” She tilts her head and looks between him and Steve, her brow furrowing. “I’m sorry, but I have to say, you two bear a striking resemblance  to Captain America and his best friend Bucky Barnes. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“We’ve heard it before when we’re out and about together,” says James, as Steve lets out a strangled cough behind him. “I’ve even almost got the same name. It’s funny how that worked out.”

“Funny indeed,” says Margie with a wink, and James knows he’s been caught in the lie. Not that he expected any less. Margie’s no idiot. Margie chuckles and says, “Well, gentlemen. Is there anything else I can help you with or did you just want to say hello?”

“Just wanted to stop by,” says James. “It was good to see you again, Margie.”

“You too, James. Thank you for coming by.” She reaches behind the desk and slides a business card toward him. “Keep in touch, won’t you? I’d like to know how you’re doing.”

James grins and puts the card in his wallet. “Thank you, Margie. I will.”

“It was good to meet you, Steve,” says Margie. Steve gives her a Captain America nod, and James snorts.  

James and Steve find Charlie at a new construction site a couple hours later. James pulls his old Soldier mask up from his neck and onto his face as he approaches, ignoring the startled glance Steve sends his way. He watches Charlie finish answering a question from two workers on top of a crane, then calls, “Charlie!”

Charlie wheels around, frowning. His jaw drops open in shock as he spots James. “Vader?” he shouts. “Holy shit, is that you?”

James nods. “It’s good to see you, Charlie.” He waits until Charlie comes out from behind the gate, then unhooks his mask, rubs his stubble, and holds out his hand. “I wanted to come and say thank you for giving me a chance last year.”

“Ah, now, none of that formal business, son,” says Charlie, and he takes James’ hand and pulls him into a firm hug. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

“You too,” says James, grinning.

“You’re a handsome kid,” says Charlie, scratching his head. “It’s good to see your face for once. Who’s your friend?”

“This is Steve,” says James, gesturing for Steve to step forward.

Steve holds out his hand. “It’s good to meet you, sir. Thank you for helping James.”

Charlie shakes Steve’s hand, squinting at Steve suspiciously. “You the reason he disappeared for almost a year?”

“Uh,” says Steve, red rushing to his cheeks. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” Charlie repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“I was in a little bit of legal trouble,” James cuts in. “Steve and his friends helped me sort it out.”

“It wasn’t James’ fault,” says Steve quickly.

James can’t help the fond, exasperated smile that crosses his face. “Maybe a little my fault, Steve.”

Steve frowns and lifts his chin stubbornly. “It wasn’t you—”

“Hey,” says Charlie, holding his hands up, “I don’t want to know any details. James, are you staying around here? Coming back to work any time soon? We could use a guy like you.”

James shakes his head apologetically. “Sorry, Charlie. Maybe one day. I’m living in New York now, and I’ve got to figure out what I want to do.”

“Damn,” says Charlie, looking disappointed. “Well, I hate to hear it, son. You ever need a gig, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you, Charlie.”

“You take care of James, now,” Charlie tells Steve in a stern voice. “He’s a good man, and he needs good people at his back. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” says Steve, straightening his shoulders and taking on his Captain America stance again. “I promise I will.”

“Good,” says Charlie. “I’d better be getting back to work, boys. See you around.”

James watches Charlie head back into the site, then turns to Steve. “What now?” he asks.

Steve takes a deep breath and looks around. “Are there any other places or people you want to visit?”

James shrugs. “Not really.”

“Well,” says Steve, looking almost shy,  “How about I show you some of my old haunts in DC?”

“All right,” says James. “Lead the way.”

Steve takes another deep breath, then turns and begins to walk down the block. James follows him, slipping his hand into Steve’s when they stop at a busy intersection with a “Don’t Walk” sign. A smile slowly spreads across Steve’s face, lighting it up like the sun, and he squeezes James’ hand gently, brushing his thumbs over James’ knuckles as they wait side-by-side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. :D We hope you enjoyed this!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and/or kudos always appreciated!
> 
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